


Murderous Imprint

by MojoFlower



Series: Hatch [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Blow Jobs, Case Fic, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hatchling!fic, Imprinting, John!whump, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Magical Realism, Not too extended or terribly graphic torture, Organ Theft, Torture, Vivisection, Whump, Wing!lock, don't worry too much about that, wing!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:24:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 52,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MojoFlower/pseuds/MojoFlower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock should be focusing on the series of brutal vivisections Lestrade has brought to him. Instead he's distracted by a most amazing and unexpected experimental opportunity from the basement apartment of 221C. Will he figure out the one in time to stop the other? And does he need help in order to do it? An AU. Eventual Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock and the Egg

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tartanfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tartanfics/gifts).



Sherlock is bored. He throws himself across his sofa, limbs asprawl, and glares morosely at the series of cracks in the ceiling that resemble arterial blood spatter patterns from a jagged knife wound to the femoral. He has that memorized, thank you. Rain sluices down the windows and the mid-afternoon sky is so dark he'll need a lamp if he wants to read. He doesn't want to read.

  
He jerks himself up, like a puppet with an unskilled and impatient puppeteer, and stalks over the coffee table to the windows. Nothing to do. No case in the past 10 days. His fingertips are raw from the violin yesterday, and he hadn't even played one piece of proper music, just sawed angrily at the strings until one finally snapped. He rapidly presses his thumb to each finger in turn, pressing hard against blood blisters, a finger dexterity exercise he does without even thinking about it anymore. He clicks his teeth. Energy radiates from him.  
  
What to do, what to do. Not cocaine. Not anymore, since Lestrade has pointed out that he has to choose between his two favorite pastimes of deducing cases (which has the very satisfying side-effect of demonstrating how imbecilic the rest of the world is) and sliding the vivifying needle, filled with 7% cocaine, into the crook of his arm. He tightens the tie of his dressing gown and swirls dramatically away from the window, running his fingers through wild, dirty hair. Hmmm. Hygiene. No. He'd vibrate down the drain if he tried to shower right now.  
  
“Sherlock! Sherlock? Woo-ooo,” It is Mrs. Hudson. He continues his sweep clear to the door of the flat.  
  
“What?” His voice is flat and irritated. He can hear her at the bottom of the stairs. Strange that she doesn't come up. Probably her hip is bothering her today. He doesn't bother to poke his head around to make eye contact.  
  
“Would you do me a favor, lovey? I need a box from the basement, and it's a wee bit heavy. Perhaps you could bring it up for me?” She is manipulating the hell out of him, he knows. “I'll lay in a little tea for you. How about that?” Hmm. A bribe. Or barter, depending on how he looks at it.  
  
He has nothing better to do, so he storms emotively _(I don't want to do this, but will… only by the last shreds of social skill left to me)_ down the stairs and silently plucks the key to 221C out of her hand as he passes her.  
  
He makes his way down the dank, close stairs, the clinging sour smell of mildew and stale air clinging in his nostrils, and pauses in front of the door to 221C. He is very glad it is as nasty and uninhabitable as it is, because it means he doesn't have to deal with any other human besides Mrs. Hudson (who usually doesn't count). He unlocks the door and steps inside.  
  
Mrs. Hudson has the power turned off in this suite, and so his only light is what filters in through the tiny street-level rectangles of dirtied glass near the ceiling. Interesting that a good wash of rain never actually makes glass any cleaner. You'd think this phenomenon would bring the average joe to the realizaton that rain is quite dirty, but it really is amazing what passes the average joe by. Sherlock's eyes dart around the room, scanning for information.  
  
He notices the box Mrs. Hudson has sent him to retrieve immediately. But it is preceded by something so unusual, so of note, that he doesn't properly register it at all, and actually forgets about it until much later, when Mrs. Hudson reminds him of it, having long since put away the cooling tea.  
  
What is it Sherlock sees that so absorbs his attention?  
  
An egg.  
  
A giant egg. Larger by far than that of an ostrich, which he knows for a fact to be the largest egg extant. This must be the size of a dinosaur egg or something. Is it a prop? He approaches it swiftly, eyes narrowed for detail, sniffing the air for any telling odor. He crouches next to the behemoth. It is dark and mottled in the gloom. Must be at least a meter long from tip to tip, he estimates, and a meter in circumference as well.  
  
His nose is telling him nothing. Mildew. Soggy cardboard (Mrs. Hudson's box). Old, damp carpet and ancient smoke, both wood and cigarette. Nothing he would associate with an egg. He leans his head forward and listens intently. No sound. His fingers twitch, and he lifts his hand and rests it, flat, on the smooth curve of the shell.  
  
It is warm! Not hot, by any means, but certainly moderately warmer than the ambient temperature. He scratches his nail gently at the material. Feels like an egg, the crisp compressed feeling of calcium, almost perfectly smooth except for the irregular, almost invisible tiny pitting that would only be visible in higher light. He flicks his thumbnail against the shell to test for resonance. It does not feel solid at all, although he feels that the shell is perhaps a centimeter thick.  
  
He pushes at it, rocking it slightly from side to side. The overshoot and resistance indicates a liquid content.  
  
Fascinating. Sherlock sits back on his haunches and stares, bemused. Certainly it is no dinosaur egg. The fact that they've been extinct for some 65 million years would preclude that. Hmmm. Sherlock rocks the egg again. Everything in him screams that it is real. Not a prop, or a practical joke. He leaves his hand on the shell and absorbs the faint heat. Eggs need to be incubated, right? Certainly it shouldn't be left to hatch out in a London basement, in late autumn. He'd better get it up to his flat, so he can begin some research. Develop some experiments. Keep it warm.  
  
It is an undignified struggle to lift the thing in his arms. It must weigh near 6 stone. It is sleek and ungainly and he finally has to cast his dressing gown around it and tie the sleeves, forming a kind of sling to give himself something to grip onto. Rather chilly in the basement in nothing but lounge pants and a t-shirt, he notes in passing. He holds the egg to him and staggers to the door (open, thank god) and up two flights of stairs. In the living room of his flat he hesitates. Experiments first? Or design some kind of nest?  
  
He heads for his bedroom. It is right off the laboratory (kitchen), so shouldn't be too inconvenient. There is a space heater in there, and the bed is rarely used anyway. He lets the massive egg fall the last few inches and bounce on the mattress. He tucks the bedclothes around the base, to prevent it from rolling.  
  
He spends the next hour measuring, weighing, getting temperature, designing tests for density, and reading up on egg incubation on the internet. While he's on the computer, he orders a stethoscope, too. Hopefully there will be something to hear: perhaps even a heartbeat! Mrs. Hudson calls up again from downstairs, and he answers her rudely and impatiently. Her stupid box will have to wait. He has something important going on. Mrs. Hudson huffs and says, in a tone every mother uses, “Sherlock! You come right down here and get that box, you!”  
  
He stomps down the stairs. “Mrs. Hudson!” he rails back. But he ducks into 221C and hauls up the nasty box of what he assumes are old clothes, going from the weight and the smell of it. “Here,” he thrusts it at her. “Now don't bother me again. I have a very important experiment going.” He ignores Mrs. Hudson's offended glare and trots back up the stairs, this time being sure to slam the door shut behind him, locking it decisively.  
  
Sherlock points several lamps at the egg, after running the space heater to bring the temperature in the room up as much as possible. The egg is a pale tan color, run throughout with darker brown curving comma shapes, and small black and white circles scattered irregularly and infrequently throughout. It looks like, could it possibly be, desert camouflage? The black and white circles certainly are reminiscent of a foot soldier's uniform. Afghanistan. He thought. Or Iraq. He turns the heater up a little more. Probably wouldn't hurt.  
  
He has a halogen lab light, similar to what you'd see over a dentist's chair, and props it against the blunter end of the egg. He's just read up on this experiment, called “candling the egg”. He should be able to determine if it is fertilized, if something is growing within it. The blunt end of the egg contains the air sac, and he can feel the pores on the surface getting larger and denser as he strokes from the pointy tip to the rounded end. Gas exchange.  
  
He draws the curtains, turns the other lights in the room off and flicks on the halogen. The rounded side of the egg is transmitting a lot of light. That is good: the air sac shouldn't have mass to prevent light from traveling. A glowing red trace-work shows blood vessels running throughout, and the curled shape of an embryo is silhouetted near the top. Viable! Sherlock pumps his fist in the air and gives a dramatic leap off the floor. “Yes!” he shouts. “It's Christmas!”  
  
Now what?


	2. Sherlock Broods His Egg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [BoringIsDull](http://boringisdull.tumblr.com/) did a LOVELY drawing for a scene in this chapter, which you will find at the bottom. Go show her your appreciation!!

Sherlock pulls out a fresh lab notebook and titles it “Incubation Procedures for Optimum Egg Hatchability”. Some of the things in his notebook include:

Early Incubation:

  * Maintain humidity at 45% (sprinkle w/37.7° C water)
  * Turn egg at least 5x/day (so internal organs remain internal, and not attached to the inside of the shell)



Late Incubation (last 3-4 days)

  * Stop turning egg
  * Increase humidity to 70%



  
Sherlock wonders how far into the incubation period they are already. The embryo is massive, he can probably calculate how much, given a few more measurements, but he can't discern details beyond a generic, crumpled up form.

Over the next several weeks, Sherlock bustles through cases at twice his normal speed, eager to return to his flat and keep an eye on his egg. He's decided he wants it to imprint on him, whatever it may be. (Griffin? Dinosaur? Dragon? Roc? All are equally impossible, he figures, so he's trying to keep an open mind.)

He tells the egg about his cases, and his methods. He leans against the egg as he speaks and his voice is low, rumbling velvet. The creature will recognize it when it hatches. When he researches basic medicine for a case involving a disturbing string of vivisections in the London underworld, he reads the medical texts aloud to the egg. He plays the violin for the egg during the odd hours he's feeling wistful. Lullabies are too babyish. He plays Paganini, Ernst, Corigliano, and works of his own. When he sleeps, he curls around the egg, assuming that his pheromones will be concentrated and perhaps even seep into the egg through its gas-exchange mechanism.

He methodically rotates the egg, in accordance with suggestions he's found on the web. He sprinkles it with very warm water several times a day, to keep it from drying up. When he doesn't think of water, he sprinkles it with tea. He figures that it's all the same to the egg.

He begins to call it “John”, just to have a handle.

The embryo within grows steadily larger, the black mass where the egg candling doesn't penetrate now encompassing almost all the space in the egg. Sherlock can watch it spasm, from time to time, and has even seen limbs flicker out, but hasn't been able to recognize them, they blur too quickly against the black background. He can feel the shell growing more fragile, thinner, more resonant, and knows that the time is approaching for hatching. The body inside is absorbing the calcium from the shell, to use in building the last bits.

Lestrade comes striding up the stairs with a case. “Oi! Sherlock! I've got one for you!” he shouts.

“Not now, Lestrade,” Sherlock hisses. “Keep your voice down.”

“What's that?” Lestrade enters the kitchen at the same moment Sherlock exits his room and shuts the door behind him. They stare at one another over the mess of beakers and microscope on the kitchen table.

“I've a very delicate experiment going, Lestrade. I'm quite unable to leave at this time.” Sherlock enunciates clearly, so that he won't have to waste precious time repeating himself to the sometimes dense D.I. There has been distinct movement from the egg, it's been rocking slightly all morning, and Sherlock is wild with excitement, although you wouldn't know that from his face.

“But Sherlock, it's a closed room--”

“Not interested. Did you not hear me the first time? Now bugger off, won't you? I'm extremely busy.”

Lestrade huffs, but Sherlock whirls back to his room and slams the door. He can hear Lestrade make his way down the stairs and back outside. He doesn't care one whit.

Over the next few hours, the egg continues to slowly rock. Sherlock drinks tea and watches it, speaking quiet words of encouragement. He wonders what is about to erupt from it. All ideas are equally improbable, so he is content to suppose mythological as well as extinct. He has dressed in one of his sharp suits, the shirt a deep maroon, in case the hatchling can see color: he wants to be noticeable. He wants to look his best, for this first, all-important meeting. Although he knows academically that it's a ridiculous notion.

Scraping and scratching commence. Finally! Sherlock hovers, one knee pressed on the mattress beside the egg, both hands flattened on the shell. “That's it, John. Come on,” he thrums. “Make quick work of it, now. No need to spend all day pecking. Come now, John. I want to meet you.”

And with that, cracks splinter out from an area on the side. Sherlock holds his breath. There is a pounding noise from inside, and at last a sharp stiletto shape pierces through, and pulls immediately back in. Was it a claw? An egg tooth? Sherlock can't tell. The object pokes out again, working steadily at the small hole, dragging down to pry open the largest crack. It looks for all the world like the clip point tip of a knife blade. If it is a claw, Sherlock thinks, it is the flattest one he's come across. He longs to get in there and help the creature out, but he's not stupid enough to put his violinist's fingers in reach of that frantic blade.

“John, John, John,” he chants quietly. “Come out. Come out.”

Hairline cracks fracture into small canyons, and several angular polygons of shell shoot to the bed. The pounding changes in tenor, and Sherlock sees a larger shape behind the stretchy white membrane. It kicks out more pieces of shell, before violently coming out through the enlarged hole. It looks for all the world like a human foot. Attached to a human leg. What the hell? But. No stranger than a roc. Or a dinosaur.

Sherlock is writing copious notes in his lab book. He doesn't want to lose any data.

The leg is pulled back inside, and two very human looking hands reach through, breaking off more of the shell. Sherlock sees an elbow. There is a final, jolting surge, and the egg rolls off the bed and crashes to the floor. Kneeling in the middle of the wreckage, panting, dripping wet with albumen, is a full-grown man. He pushes quickly, and unsteadily, to his feet.


	3. Sherlock Meets the Hatchling

Sherlock is mentally reeling. His hatchling is physically reeling. Sherlock comes to enough to reach out and grasp the man's slippery biceps. “Steady,” he says, in a voice that's anything but. The man reaches up and clasps his forearms in a punishing grip, in spite of the trembling that's seizing his body. Dark eyes stare into Sherlock's. He can feel the unbelieving grin that stretches his face. A man! Or, at least, Sherlock remembers scientific impartiality, something closely resembling a man.

“John,” he says, remembering the imprinting. “You must be John. How nice to meet you. I've been waiting for 93 days, 11 hours and 23 minutes, not counting your hatching.” He can't fight the stupid grin. “You are humanoid. That was entirely unexpected. Well, so was everything else, so I guess I'm not surprised. Although I did have a few fantasies about flying around on a dragon, or a griffin.”

The trembling subsides, although the man in front of him doesn't let go, continues to gaze straight up into his eyes. Sherlock strokes his thumbs across the slimy skin, notes that the man is naked, well, of course, and decidedly male. His hair is very short, and appears to be brown, although it's hard to tell with it all wet. He is about 1.7 meters tall. “You must have been getting quite cramped in there,” Sherlock murmurs. There is some sympathy, but the comment is primarily a factual analysis. “Here, can you walk? Come with me into the bathroom, so I can get you on a scale. And wash you up.”

The man doesn't move. Sherlock tries gently pulling him forwards, and the man pitches into his arms. Huh, thinks Sherlock. Not such a good idea to wear the suit. Now he has an armful of wet, naked man. His head is curled up under Sherlock's chin, laid tight against his chest, and he imagines that he must be feeling his heartbeat.

Sherlock thinks that is a good idea, and slides his hand down to his John's wrist, checking for a pulse there. 180bpm. Enough for an agitated human. I should soothe him, he thinks, and wraps his arms around the man's shoulders. “John. You're John,” he says, deepening his voice, and letting it rumble through his chest, where John may be soothed by the vibrations. “I found you in the basement. I wonder where on earth you've come from. How can you exist? I've named you John. My name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.” He rambles for several minutes, gently clasping his new hatchling, who doesn't move a muscle. His fingers slip back to measure the pulse again. 130. Much better.

“Can you walk? Here, let's give try it again,” and Sherlock begins to slowly back towards the door. John is held loosely now, some 20cm between them. John stiffly follows, lurching from one leg to the other, mirroring Sherlock's movements. John is staring intently at Sherlock's legs. “That's right! Very good, John. You're a quick learner. I knew you would be. All that violin music, I'm sure. Come on, then. Shower for you.”

They stagger through the kitchen into the bath, where Sherlock manages to manipulate the man onto the bathroom scale. 68 kilograms. He pushes John to sit on the toilet while he leans over to start the shower. When it's warm enough, he briskly washes his new pet, clinically noting that there's no discernible difference between him and a human. He'll get a blood sample soon, and bring it to Bart's. Well, bring all of John to Bart's actually, because he wants X-rays, too. He towels him briskly when he's done, and wraps him in a spare dressing gown.

“Alright, John. Now I suppose I should feed you.” Sherlock has laid in supplies for this moment. He has ground beef (in case it was a dragon), mash (in case it was some kind of bird), goat's milk (in case it was some kind of mammal), and a tub of squirming meal-worms (in case it was reptile). John, he thinks may only need Ready brek and tea. “Come on, sit here, I'll get you something.” It is the work of a moment to have the kettle on, and then tea is ready and so is the Ready brek. John can smell it, Sherlock is sure. His nose flares and his pupils dilate.

“Hungry, then?” Sherlock scoops the spoon in the bowl, but John reaches around it for the tea. “Ah! Tea. Of course. I wonder if you could smell that when you were inside. Here, wait a bit and let it cool.” Sherlock wraps his hands around John's and guides them around the mug. “Feel how hot it is? You need to wait. Or blow on it. See?” Sherlock demonstrates with his own. John watches his every move.

John's face is still blank. Sherlock hasn't seen any emotion on it yet. But as he pulls the mug to his mouth, his movements are still jerky, and tea sloshes over the lip and slashes on his hands. He thrusts the cup away from him, it crashes to the floor, and his face twists into surprise and pain. His mouth opens in a gasp of displeasure.

Sherlock is recording data. Facial expressions. Vocalizations. Minor burns on his hands, should run under cold water. He leans forward and grasps John's wrists, clicking his tongue. “Hot, John. It's hot. You need to be careful.” He pulls him toward the sink and thrusts his hands under the cold water. John vocalizes again, an mmmmm sound, and leans back against Sherlock.

Five minutes later, they try again, and John very obviously enjoys his tea. The Ready brek goes down swiftly as well, once Sherlock shows him how to use a spoon. Sherlock rubs his thumb thoughtfully across his bottom lip. “Come on, John. Let's go to the lounge. I want to try talking.”

John looks at him, and there's intelligence in his eyes. He opens his mouth, and then clears his throat. “Uh,” is what he says. His first word. Sherlock grins, so proud, and John grins back. More data. More firsts. It's wonderful. Sherlock takes his hand and pulls him to the sofa. When they're settled, he points to himself. “Sherlock.” He points to John. “John.” He does this several times, and then waits, eyebrow cocked, indicating expectation. A look of puzzlement flashes across John's face, and then he noises again. “Uuuuhhhh.”

Sherlock waits.

“Zhaaan,” he says.

Sherlock beams at him, pointing, and repeats, “John.”

He says again, “Djaaan.”

“Yes. Very good. It's a alveolar affricate, the 'J' sound. Use the front part of your tongue against the hard palate just behind the alveolar ridge.” Sherlock holds his tongue in the proper position and waits for John to study it. Then he repeats, “John.”

John probably doesn't understand the detour into linguistics, but on his third try, manages to say his name adequately.

Sherlock nods his head. “Excellent. Now. Sherlock. Can you say Sherlock?” He taps his chest, to indicate his ownership of this name. “Sherlock,” he says again, and then waits.

A faint smile passes across John's face, and he says, slowly and carefully, “Szhuur-lock. Szherlock. Sherlock.”

It is nearing two in the morning, now, and Sherlock and John are communicating in very short sentences. How John knows the language is impossible (but what about this isn't?) It's as if he just had to be reminded to speak.

“What do you know about yourself?” Sherlock asks. “What manner of creature are you? Have you any idea?”

John looks puzzled. “I don't know,” he says slowly. “I am... like you?” He places his hand on the sofa next to Sherlock's and looks at them both. “We are... together?” He can't think of the word. He holds Sherlock's hand up, palm out, and presses his own palm against it. His fingers are shorter than Sherlock's, his palm more broad, his skin more golden. He holds the two hands in his other, and turns them this way and that, examining, comparing.

Sherlock is mesmerized. Oh, the intelligence of this creature. Absorbing and reorganizing data, reaching intangible conclusions by extrapolation and inference. John releases Sherlock and sweeps his hand across his own face, visibly counting on himself, reflected by Sherlock, two eyes, two eyebrows, two ears, a single nose and mouth, the shape of his chin.

“Do you want to see what you look like?” Sherlock asks.

John's face is arrested. “Yes, please,” he answers. “I would like that.” John's movements are much more fluid now, as he levers off the sofa to follow Sherlock to the full-length mirror on his wardrobe door. His steps are quick, and his shoulders back. He walks like a soldier, Sherlock thinks.

John stands in front of the mirror, wonder on his face. He stares at himself, then Sherlock, then back at himself. His hair is sandy, with a patch of gray at the temple. His face is rounder, more lined. He runs a hand across a cheek becoming rough with stubble.

“We can shave you tomorrow, if you don't like it.” Sherlock is floating over his shoulder, staring at him in the mirror. His hand comes forward and strokes down John's cheek. John's head tips back, and his jaws suddenly crack in a huge yawn.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I suppose you're tired,” he says, irritated. “You've only been out for fourteen hours and 37 minutes. But I guess hatching is a big day for anyone,” he concedes.

John yawns again. His eyelids flutter, and sink.

“Alright then. We're already here.” Sherlock nudges John forward, to the bed. “Lie down and sleep then. We've got a busy day tomorrow.”

“Good night,” John says comfortably, and nods off almost before Sherlock has drawn up the covers.

Sherlock putters for a while. He picks up the shell fragments, and stores them in bags for further study. He gathers samples of the goo from inside the egg, and places that in the fridge. He wipes up the floor.

At 3am, he decides it's more efficient if he sleep, and he curls up around John, like he's done for the past 93 days. Of course, John is much warmer and softer, now that he's not an egg. Sherlock likes this. It is more comfortable. He puts his arm around John's waist and snugs him up against his chest. Must be sure the imprinting is successful, after all.


	4. Barts and the Unexpected

The next day, after feeding his John again (Sherlock has set an alarm on his phone, to be sure he feeds his hatchling regularly) Sherlock tows him off to St. Bart's. John sticks very close behind him as they walk down the street to find a cab, and sits pressed against his side once they're in it. Sherlock is delighted to encounter another person to whom society's conventions are an incomprehensible bother. Although he normally doesn't like anyone to touch him, he finds that John is an exception to that rule. Perhaps because John isn't human? Well, that's leaping to conclusions. He needs to do DNA analysis and X-rays first.  
  
Sherlock blows into the lab with John one step behind him. John's eyes are very wide, and he seems both fascinated and nervous to be out in the big world. He sticks tightly to Sherlock's shadow, just to his left, and doesn't speak. Sherlock comes to an abrupt halt when he encounters Molly at the lab bench.  
  
“Ah. Molly. Well.” Sherlock was hoping to be alone.  
  
“Oh! Hi, Sherlock! Er. I didn't expect to see you today. Nothing too interesting in the morgue drawers right now! Just a blood clot following knee surgery and a suicide by asphyxiation.” Molly smiles shyly, and looks around Sherlock at John. “Oh! Um... Hi.”  
  
John looks at Sherlock, waiting to see what he should do. Sherlock prompts him, “Say 'Hello', John; and then you don't have to talk to her after that.” Sherlock is never going to get a second job as a charm school instructor, for sure.  
  
John swivels his eyes back to Molly and smiles. “Hello.”  
  
Molly looked confused, says OK, and turns back to Sherlock. She flutters around the lab, annoying Sherlock intensely. She is talking about the new spectrometer that's coming in next week. Sherlock wants to draw John's blood, and he doesn't want an audience for it.  
  
“Molly,” he says forcefully, to attract her attention and shut her up.  
  
She stills immediately. “Yes?”  
  
“John would like some tea, I imagine. If you would...?”  
  
This is Sherlock's normal behavior. Molly looks a little rejected, but not shocked at his bad manners. She smiles at John again. “Um. Ok. I'll just... go and get some, then.”  
  
John folds his face into a smile, reflecting her expression back at her. His face is warm and bright when he smiles, and it makes Sherlock feel quite... content... to see that. He tugs John over to a stool as soon as the door closes behind Molly. “Here, John,” he snaps on a pair of latex gloves and digs in a cabinet for a syringe. “I'm going to take a blood sample. Please stay still.”  
  
He rolls up John's sleeve and twists a tourniquet around John's upper arm, patting around for a juicy vein. Sometimes, having been a junkie gives him useful skills. He swabs at John's skin with an alcohol wipe, and John jumps a little at the feeling of cold and the sharp smell. Sherlock jabs the needle carefully towards the biggest vein he can find.  
  
The next few seconds are moderate pandemonium.  
  
John leaps backward, stumbling over the stool, and drops to a semi-crouch against the lab bench. There is a cacophony of the crashing stool, Sherlock's shouted, wordless admonishment, and John's ragged gasp. Sherlock staggers a little, made unsteady by the fact that John is no longer under his hands. The syringe is hanging out of John's arm, lifting and pulling at the skin around the needle, and John is holding two large  _knives_ , one in each hand. His expression is feral, and Sherlock can see the pulse race in his neck.  
  
Sherlock just stares. John stares back. Neither of them move for many long seconds.  
  
Finally, Sherlock says, in a low, soothing voice, “It's alright, John. I'm not going to hurt you.” John relaxes minutely, but doesn't release his grip on the knives. Sherlock disengages his eyes from John's and stares at his hands. Sherlock is fascinated and bewildered. He knows every instrument in this lab, and none of them are two military-issue Ka-Bar clip point combat knives, he's sure. John holds them as if he knows quite well how to use them.  
  
“Where did you get the knives, John?” Sherlock isn't nervous, he's just curious. “I haven't seen them before.”  
  
John looks down at his hands and straightens up, shaking his head. He shakes his arm a couple of times, and the needle falls to the floor with a soft plink. He gives each knife a half-spin, in his palm, and they... disappear.  
  
Sherlock sucks in a breath. “Do that again,” he commands.  
  
John twists his hands, and he is suddenly holding the knives again.  
  
“That's how you got out of the egg,” Sherlock murmurs. “Extraordinary. Where do they go?” He moves slowly towards John, stoops, and gets the needle off the floor. He disposes of it in the sharps container. He rights the stool, and then sits on it, chin on one fist. “There. See? I'm not doing the needle again. You can relax. Now. Where do they go?” he asks again.  
  
John shrugs. Not to be recalcitrant, but because he doesn't know. He gives the knives a half-spin again, and they vanish. Sherlock is watching very closely, and is certain it's not sleight-of-hand. He reaches forward. “May I feel your hands?” he asks. Normally, he wouldn't be so polite, he'd just grab them up if he wanted to. But now he's not entirely sure his fingers won't be severed for the audacity, so caution seems the better part scientific method. John nods hesitantly, and extends his hands.  
  
Sherlock takes John's left hand in both his own. It is warm and alive. The skin is soft, the muscles beneath are rounded and taut. Sherlock palpates the palm and the back of the hand. He feels bones, tendons, muscle and skin, and that is all. He sees pores, light blond hairs, and blue venation, but that is all. He pulls his fingers along Johns fingers, and feels nothing that should not be there, only phalanges, and broad, blunt fingernails. He rubs John's other hand, and has a similar lack of epiphanies. He works his way past the pad of the thumb down John's wrist, pressing, pulling and twisting. Nothing feels out of place.  
  
Sherlock wraps his fingers around John's forearm. “If I hold you here, can you do it?”  
  
John raises his eyebrows to show he's uncertain. “Do you want me to try?”  
  
“Go ahead.”  Sherlock holds firmly, but not too tight.  He feels the ropey muscle of John's forearm flex and pull, the ulna and radius contort, and suddenly the knife is there, in John's fist.  He twists it back out of sight.   Amazing.  In the name of scientific inquiry, but using his somewhat less valuable left hand, Sherlock holds around John's palm.  John tries, but nothing happens.  Sherlock changes variables again, wraps his hand around John's wrist.  Nothing.  “Hmmmm.  Limits.”  He slips his hand back to John's palm.  
  
There is a slight noise from the door, and Molly comes in with two steaming cups. “I brought one--” she trails off, gaze fixed on where Sherlock is holding hands with John. Sherlock realizes immediately what she's thinking.  
  
“Yes, Molly. John is the enigmatic boyfriend I've been concealing for so long.” Sherlock is being sarcastic, because he's unimpressed with petty little minds that always leap to sexually-derived conclusions. Normal humans interpret  _everything_ through a sexual filter, he sometimes thinks.  
  
Molly doesn't pick up on the sarcasm, since Sherlock's tone hasn't changed at all from his typical voice (which is not surprising, as he's always being sarcastic) and blushes fiery red. “Oh! Um... well. I'll just. Just.” She sets the tea on the desk next to the door. “Leave these here.”  
  
She looks unhappy, and John furrows his brows at her. He doesn't know enough about the world yet to realize this is how one looks when one's hopes are dashed, but he certainly picks up on the unhappy vibe. He feels he needs to fix that, and takes a step towards her, Sherlock's hand slipping off of his. “Thank you?” John tries. He gets a tremulous smile, and Molly scurries back out of the lab. He looks to Sherlock, for some guidance in reading body language, but Sherlock is not going to be a good teacher in that regard. As a matter of fact, Sherlock has stopped thinking of Molly entirely.


	5. John Has Another Trick

Sherlock sits next to John on the sofa back in Baker Street. He is fondling John's hands. John is leaning his head against the back of the sofa, his eyes half closed, looking quite relaxed. John doesn't know of any reason why he should not be savoring this, so he is. Sherlock is a pleasant, comforting warmth beside him. He turns his head so that his nose brushes against Sherlock's shoulder, and he inhales. Sherlock's odor is warm, and heavy and makes John feel safe and relaxed. He nuzzles his nose closer to Sherlock's collarbones, and whuffles again. The smell is stronger. Better. John will follow this smell anywhere.

Sherlock smirks, thinking that imprinting is continuing apace. John's warm nose in his neck is fine, actually. Sherlock finds that beyond simply tolerating it, for the sake of science, he is actively enjoying it. Humid breath ghosts across his sternum, and he shivers slightly, making himself refocus on John's hands.

At Bart's the x-rays showed nothing more than a typical human skeleton. 206 bones (Sherlock counted them all). No steel knife silhouettes. He was afraid to put John in the MRI, just to be on the safe side. He doesn't want 10 inch knives ripped out of the flesh of John's forearms.

Sherlock did ultrasounds. Nothing unusual. Organs all in the right places, and as typical as can be. He'd carefully examined every inch of John's body. John didn't have any qualms about that, which delighted Sherlock. But everything seemed in place and functional.

Sherlock liked the smooth warm skin under his hands during his examination of John at Bart's, and the trust that was given him. It was very different from exploring a corpse, the flesh hotter and more resilient, but also very different from the sexual encounters he'd scheduled/endured/researched in the past. He still felt that John was some kind of pet, and stroking him was calming and enjoyable. Seemingly, for both of them. Nothing to get hung up on here. However, it was time for research, and so he hadn't lingered on the sensation, both emotional and physical.

After a more thorough explanation, and a demonstration on himself, Sherlock was permitted to extract a couple vials of John's blood. The DNA analysis will take time, of course, but he'd done a basic metabolic analysis, and blood type, and looked at it under a microscope to determine ratios of red and white blood cells. John seemed human in every way. He had type O-negative blood. Found in 7% of the population. Universal donor. Given Sherlock's lifestyle, that could be convenient, so he filed that fact carefully away. Actually, all facts about John are carefully filed away. John has an entire bookcase in the Mind Palace at this point.

The next morning Sherlock wakes up in his bed. This is atypical. It's only been since brooding the egg that he's slept in his bed more than one night in a row. He doesn't try to analyze that, though. His id figures that it's none of his brain's business why he likes to sleep wrapped around John. The dip of the mattress and rustle of bed clothes have awakened him.

John is sitting on the edge of the mattress. His hair is spiky and asymmetrical from sleep, and Sherlock can see pillow-lines along his check. He is looking left, out the window. Sherlock can smell him: sleep-hot and musky. He is blurred at the edges, because Sherlock hasn't bothered opening his eyes all the way, and sees him filtered through lashes. A giant yawn pops John's jaw, and he arches back, pulling taut his muscles, and then spreads his arms wide in a stretch.

There is a moment of confusion, in which Sherlock suddenly questions whether or not he is actually awake.

Two immense, long, dun-feathered wings snap suddenly out across John's back, blocking most of John from Sherlock's view. They arch over his head, and extend more than three meters from tip to tip. The lamp and notebooks are swept from the night table with a crash, a poster of the molecular structure of arsenic and other poisons is ripped off the wall, leaving behind a lonely tack, and the primary feathers of the left hand wing are jammed crookedly into the cracked door of the wardrobe.

John startles, and pulls the wings close against his back, springing to his feet and whirling around. The knives are in his hands, and his wings are hunched protectively near his ears, feathers fluffed and outstanding. They quiver.

Sherlock is frozen on the bed. His eyes are now fully open, and he draws in a long, slow lungful of air. He feels dizzy with elation. “John,” he whispers.

John's fists tighten around the leather-wrapped handles of his knives and then relax marginally. The mottled gray-brown feathers ripple in agitation. His face looks arrested more than afraid. Dark eyes lock onto Sherlock.

“You've got wings, John.” Sherlock doesn't often state the obvious, but this seems like a special occasion. He slowly sits up. John, realizing there's no immediate threat, twists his knives back into the Elsewhere in which they are stored. “No. Not the wings. Keep them out. Please,” Sherlock says hurriedly.

John looks over his shoulders, and flexes the wings behind his back. A few bottles and papers are knocked off the dresser, even though he doesn't near extend them to their full length. “Sorry,” he says, not really focused. “I. Mmmmm. This is unusual, isn't it?” he asks. Sherlock notes distractedly that his speech is much more fluid this morning, but he doesn't want to pursue that thought right now.

Sherlock snorts. “Rather. Well. For a human. I'm still not too sure about you. Did you know you could do it?”

John shakes his head, and walks over to the wardrobe, to see himself in the mirror there. However, it doesn't offer a very comprehensive view. Sherlock clambers off the bed and goes straight to John, fingers twitching with eagerness. He strokes his hand from the soft, darker brown scapular feathers alongside his spine out, curving his fingers around the humerus bone, _John's got a whole extra set of bones, for god's sake! And they certainly didn't show up on the x-rays!_ , flexing the joint between it and the bones of the forearm.

“Amazing,” Sherlock breathes. John stands still under his examination, and hums softly as Sherlock cards his fingers through the feathers. He watches Sherlock's movements in the mirror. The covert feathers, nearer the leading edge of the wing, are downy soft and short. They are darker brown and speckled with black and gray. Sherlock forgets to ask permission, and stretches the wing out, spreading the primary and secondary flight feathers. These are large, the longest perhaps 30 inches, stiff, and banded distinctly in shades of brown and gray.

Sherlock fingers through the primaries, straightening the jumble created by being jammed into the door crack. He tugs John into the living room. “Come here, John. I want to see your full span.” John smiles and allows himself to be pulled, wings dragging the floor, through the kitchen. Sherlock positions him in the middle of the room and says, “Now.”

[John extends his wings](http://kayjaykayme.tumblr.com/image/35989027143), and fully opened they are impressive indeed. Sherlock steps back, trips over the coffee table, and flings himself cat-like (as if he intended it all along) atop the sofa. He perches on the back of it. John is facing the fireplace, and his wingtips brush the window on one side and extend to the kitchen on the other.

“Amazing,” Sherlock breathes, eyes bright and wide. “Can you fly? Do you think you can fly? We'll have to head out to the estate, for space and privacy. You _look_ like you can fly. But your bones certainly aren't hollow. Oh. _God_. I can't wait to get started on experiments!” Sherlock leaps to his feet, bounds across the coffee table, and enthusiastically hugs John from behind, one arm over, and the other under his wings. He rubs his cheek against the feathers nearest him, and John sighs and smiles, relaxing.

Sherlock bounces on his toes, intending to get a measuring tape and magnifying glass, when the door downstairs is flung open, and Lestrade's distinctive tread is heard rushing up the stairs.

“John!” Sherlock snaps. “Put away your wings.”

With an audible flutter, John promptly folds his wings in. They knock Sherlock in the face as they close. Feathers drag the floor and a couple of books are knocked awry in his haste, but as they pull close to his body, they whisk out of sight. Lestrade pokes his head in through the door.

John begins to sink into a crouch, and Sherlock can see his arms twitch, preparing for the knife trick. He thrusts his hands forward, and grabs tightly on John's biceps. “Don't,” he murmurs under his breath. John stops, but steps back a bit, until he's pressed against Sherlock's chest. He tilts his head up, checking Sherlock's face for signals.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock greets, exaggeratedly relaxed, part of his brain shouting that John's imprinted on him, and he has to teach him about the world. Lestrade is 'safe'. That is the lesson here. His thumbs stroke small circles behind John's shoulders although he's not planning to do that.

Lestrade's eyebrows rise in shock, and he comes to a dead halt in the doorway. “Er,” he says elegantly. There is silence. “Sorry, Sherlock. I didn't knock--”

“Don't tell me things I already know, Lestrade.” Sherlock releases John (reluctantly, part of his brain reports to him, but he files that away under _To Be Examined Later_ ) and steps forward, around John. “What have you got for me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KayJayKayMe did a fantastic photomanip for this story, which I embedded. But in case that didn't work, or you want to see a larger image, you should check it out here: http://kayjaykayme.tumblr.com/image/35989027143


	6. Chapter 6:  John's First Case and a Niggling Memory

Lestrade looks understandably confused. He has never. _never_. seen Sherlock with any kind of partner. He's always been alone. But both men are wearing pajamas, and were virtually embracing when he entered, so he must assume they're having some kind of relationship. “I didn't mean to interrupt--”

Sherlock looks disdainful. “You didn't 'interrupt', Lestrade. Now, tell me what you've got.”

Lestrade's eyes flicker to the small, light-haired man standing in Sherlock's shadow. He looks a little defensive, but also curious. He's a bit older than Sherlock, and careworn lines are carved in his face, but it's altogether pleasant. Lestrade finds himself giving the stranger a brief smile. “Hi. I'm Greg Lestrade,” he introduces himself, stepping forward with his hand out. Any man who can tolerate spending time with Sherlock, much less... well... whatever the pair's been up to... is worth getting to know. The man flinches slightly, and makes no reciprocating move. Sherlock flings his arm out possessively, barricading John behind it.

“This is John. Nosy git. Now... tell me. Your _confidentiality_ is safe enough here.  He's imprinted on me."

Lestrade gapes for a second, and then shuts his mouth. He doesn't know what the hell that means, and he's not about to ask. Whatever the kinky bastards are doing is surely none of his business, but he can feel his face heat up. Sherlock sees. Of course he sees. But he doesn't mention it.

“We found another body, Sherlock. An alley in Mayfair. Stripped of the organs, just like a month ago. We figure it's the same killer. Will you come?”

Sherlock's eyebrow shoots up, and a half-smile stamps his face. “Oh! I was hoping he would strike again. It's been bugging me like a loose tooth that the leads dried up the way they did. Yes.” He glances at John. “We'll be there shortly.”

“Sherlock, you can't bring--”

“Yes. I can. He's with me.” Sherlock stares at him challengingly and waits. Lestrade is in enough hot water already, this being the fifth body in the past six months that has been cut open and the organs removed. He quickly weighs the trouble of letting another unauthorized person onto a very important crime scene, versus having Sherlock potentially solve the case, and makes up his mind.

“I'll text you with the address,” he says, and leaves at a jog.

Sherlock and John are dressed and in a cab 10 minutes later. Sherlock is bouncing on the seat with excitement. “Hopefully, John, this'll be the one where the killer makes a mistake. Serial killers  _always_ make a mistake. And I've been waiting. Plus, the body is _fresh!_  I'm bound to learn more, since it hasn't been lying around for a week, or been pulled out of a wet skip.”

“Why are you bringing me?” John asks. His personality is beginning to come out, now that he is three days out of his egg. He seems practical, and quiet and generous. Once Sherlock showed him how to make tea and toast, he'd taken over those duties without complaining, and always made some for Sherlock as well.

Sherlock bumps his shoulder into John's and turns on him with a flashing smile and glowing eyes. “Because it's _fun_ , John. It's exciting. Don't you want to see what it is that I do?”

John grins back. “Of course. But I don't want to be in the way.”

“You can't be,” Sherlock assures him. “Conceivably, you might even be helpful.” He takes up one of John's hands, staring thoughtfully at where the skillfully handled knives could appear in need. 

John laughs, and flashes a knife in the palm of his other hand. “This?” he asks. Something stirs low in Sherlock's belly at the laugh, the competently handled weapon, but he ignores it. The game, after all, is on.

Sherlock winks, but says, “Better keep it put away while we're out. Especially in front of half the Met.”

So they are both giggling, inappropriately, when they stroll up to the police line. “We should stop giggling,” Sherlock gasps. “It's a crime scene!”

Sally Donovan is manning the police line, as usual. “Hullo, Freak,” she drawls. “They letting you in again?”

The laughter vanishes, and Sherlock's face grows cold and haughty. “Yes. I guess they want it _solved_ this time.” His tone is contemptuous. There is a face-off for a moment, and then Sally lifts the tape. John goes to duck after Sherlock, and she snaps it down again.

“Whoa! Who's this, then?”

“He's with me.”

“With you? That's not good enough. You'll have to wait here,” she tells John, clearly delighted to have one over on Sherlock.

“He's my ... colleague … and he comes with me,” Sherlock growls.

“Colleague? How do you get a colleague?” Sher turns disdainfully towards John. “What? Did he follow you home?”

John looks mildly confused. “He was there when I hatched,” he answers truthfully. “We were already in the flat.”

Sally boggles at them for a minute, and Sherlock reaches impatiently around her to lift the ribbon. “Come along, John.”

John follows with a feeling of burning excitement. The site is a tiny alleyway, gray and dirty in the dreary light of an overcast day. He can pick out Lestrade, standing near a skip hidden partially behind a small loading dock. Sherlock strides toward him and John hurries behind, keeping a little to the left, so he can see.

Another man comes forward just as they near Lestrade, and steps deliberately into Sherlock's path, forcing them to jolt past each other, knocking shoulders. He is tall, dark-haired and ghoulish, and has an angry sneer on his face.

“Anderson,” Sherlock snarls. “I was hoping you'd take a sick day and leave me with a pristine scene.”

“Fucking psychopath,” Anderson mutters, quiet enough so Lestrade won't be able to make out his words. “I don't know what you've got over the Inspector that he lets you wander around, drooling like the sicko you are over blood and guts, but someday soon you're going to get what you deserve.”

“God I hope so,” Sherlock responds, in a normal tone. “Frankly, I deserve some peace so that I may solve your crimes for you in somewhat less time than it takes normally. Lestrade, can't you send him away while I do my work?”

Lestrade looks over and rolls his eyes. “Anderson, go talk to Donovan.” Anderson stalks away, glaring daggers at John as he passes. John is bewildered, but stares aggressively back, not liking Sherlock threatened. “And who the fuck are you,” Anderson mutters as he brushes past John. It isn't a question. John holds his ground, and not to his surprise, finds himself preparing to twitch his knives forward. He holds back, however, and Anderson stomps away.

Lestrade continues, “Sherlock, I'm glad you're here.” He nods politely to John before indicating the corner of the loading dock and the wall, where a mess of blood and flesh lies crumpled. “The floor manager of the shop here found the body this morning at 6am. She's inside, if you need to question her.” He gestures, and stands back so that Sherlock can step forward.

Sherlock's eyes dart like starlings all around the alleyway before narrowing in on the sad bundle of what used to be humanity. He approaches carefully, and squats next to it, fastidiously keeping his shoes just outside the large runnels of blood around the corpse. John stands just behind, leaning with one hand on Sherlock's shoulder, looking curiously on.

“You can see he removed the organs prior to death,” John comments. “Probably finished with the heart.”

Sherlock goes rigid under his hand. There is a long pause, and then, “What?” Sherlock says, flatly intoned.

John looks worried and steps back a little. “There's so much blood. It's evident the heart was still beating for much of the organ removal. Otherwise the blood would have pooled in the veins. So the heart had to be the last thing taken out.” He looks at Sherlock for approval.

Sherlock jolts to his feet, and presses his face close to John's. He is a live wire. He grabs John by the shoulders and whispers in a hissing voice, so that Lestrade cannot hear, “How can you _possibly_ know that?”

Several expressions pass quickly over John's face: nervousness, determination, defiance. “Why? Is that bad that I know?”

Sherlock's smile answers for him: fleeting and sincere. “No, John. It's _brilliant!_  You're right, of course. But how on earth did you know?” He gives him a gentle shake.

John relaxes and murmurs back, “I don't know. But I do.” His brows wrinkle. “I know a lot about bodies. I know about things in there that I can't see right now. Bones. Muscles and organs. Biological systems....” He begins to look quite worried, and feels a little dizzy. He reaches out to hold onto Sherlock's forearms for stability. The alleyway recedes. “I've done this before. Had bodies opened in front of me. I've had my hands inside. I know how it all works, Sherlock. I... I.... I feel like that's my life.”


	7. Doctor and Soldier

Sherlock is stunned. Before he can answer, Lestrade interrupts. “ _Oi!_ Don't take all day.” He hasn't heard any of this. Sherlock looks at John's ashen face and pushes him towards the steps of the loading dock. “Go. Sit. See what else you can figure out about yourself.” And John does, feeling unsteady and slightly nauseous, as waves of knowledge crash over him.

“Your mate alright?” Lestrade asks quietly when Sherlock turns back to him.

“Nothing to concern you,” Sherlock returns brusquely. He dismisses Lestrade and swarms over the corpse, examines every limb, every digit and extremity; smells hair, mouth, shoulder; picks over the clothes, hair and jewelry. He pulls his magnifier from his inside pocket and goes over it all again. Six minutes pass. Lestrade divides his attention between Sherlock and his strange companion, who is looking by turns ill and fascinated.

“Well? Have you got anything?” Lestrade prompts, as Sherlock rises from his crouch and steps back.

“Pshhht. If the Met weren't such a flock of brainless sheep...” Sherlock trails off, condescending. But he's jittery with energy, and shoots a glance over at John on the stoop before he inhales deeply and begins, including John in his explanation.

“We are clearly looking at a young woman who was out on the town. A nightclub one presumes, rather than a pub, going by the smell of artificially generated fog: vanilla scented (ghastly, and certainly neither obscures nor compliments the odor of atomized mineral oil!), but still quite evident. Also, the faint residue of glycerine evenly distributed on only one side of her body indicates that the fog machine was situated to her right. But she doesn't smell of sweat, only alcohol, fog, cheap perfume and ambient cigarettes (she clearly isn't a smoker), so she wasn't dancing. Only sitting at the bar.

“Her watch is broken and stopped at 2:18. She left the club at closing call, and it was 18 minutes before the killer began to cut her up. There are no visible defensive wounds. No bruising across the forearms, no broken or chipped fingernails. And look at those fingernails! They are a full 3 centimeters long: at least one would have popped off if she'd tried to fight back.

“So. What does this mean? She was not coerced, but seduced. Look, the beginnings of love bites here on her neck. She thought she was going home with her companion from the bar. I can smell beer on her, overlaid with vodka mixed with cranberry. She started the evening alone, keeping budget by buying herself beer, which means the companion is a stranger to her. She was not a woman of means.”

Lestrade looks at the mangled corpse in amazement. “What? How do you know she was poor?”

Sherlock frowns at him. “Obvious. Her right forefinger and thumb show traces of multiple polish colors along the upper edges of the nails, so she worked as a manicurist at a salon or spa. Not high income, that. The jewelry and clothing are cheap and well-used. Her most expensive item is the watch, doubtless a gift. The engraving on the back says _“For J.A. 4evr [heart] W.M. 2010”_. So. The watch was from a long-term lover, which means she was cheating on him last night. He would have been buying her drinks from the outset, otherwise. It is marginally conceivable that the killer is her boyfriend, but the odds of that are astronomical, seeing as how she's the fifth victim in a series. However, _W.M._ should certainly be found and interviewed.”

Sherlock has been striding back and forth with frenetic steps, whirling at the apex and darting back as he pauses and draws in a deep breath. John watches, engrossed, from his seat. Lestrade rocks back on his heels, both hands jammed into his pockets, following Sherlock with bright, attentive eyes. “That all you've got for me, then?” Lestrade prods.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Look at her shoes. Cheap, but recently bought. The heels are high enough that she'd totter around when walking, and wouldn't want to do much of it because it would hurt. The soles are barely scuffed and her toes are compressed and bruised, but not blistered. She hasn't been on her feet much tonight. That means she hasn't walked too far from where she hooked up with the killer. Or they took a cab. But only 18 minutes, remember? So we're not far from where they met.”

John is no longer reeling under decades' worth of medical knowledge and experience. The information is still bubbling forth in his mind, but he's able to relegate it to background noise. He listens to Sherlock's unnervingly minute and accurate deductions. He stares, riveted, at Sherlock. “That's extraordinary! Absolutely fantastic,” he says warmly. “All that from just looking at a blood-covered body for a few minutes?” He's incredulous. “Amazing.”

Sherlock turns in surprise. “Really?” he asks, feeling quite proud.

“Oh. Yes. I'm quite sure no one else would be able to do that.” John is firm in his admiration, even though he has no idea how he knows such a thing.

Sherlock basks in the compliment for a moment. “Well. It's really quite basic. I'm not doing anything you lot couldn't, if you'd only observe more closely.”

Instead of taking offense at this, John nods his head and rises, moving forward to peer intently at the body, as if challenged. “Ok.” But he all he sees is that there's too much blood for it _not_ to be a vivisection.

“Can you deduce anything?” Sherlock asks, looming suddenly at his shoulder. John cocks his head up at him and twitches a wry face. “What? Something _you've_ missed?”

Sherlock looks serious. “If you have medical knowledge...” he trails off, raising an expectant eyebrow.

John frowns down at the body.

“Well, the incision is textbook,” he begins cautiously. Sherlock hums, and lifts one hand to John's shoulder, giving it irregular and (bizarre) little squeezes of excitement and support.

“It seems quite neat. Probably done with a proper scalpel. The ribs have been cut away with a bone saw, to allow for easier access. The intestines have been scooped out for the same reason,” he tilts his head toward the disturbing pile of slightly congealed bloody entrails piled gruesomely at the body's side. “I can see that the heart, lungs and liver are missing. The stomach and intestines remain, obviously. I'd have to glove up and get my hands in there to determine more.”

He looks at Sherlock to see if he'll scoff or admire. Those electrifying eyes widen, glow and then close in a slow blink. John gets another squeeze and Sherlock curls down until his lips are millimeters from John's ear.

“ _Very_ good, John,” he breathes.

And John shivers.

Sherlock spins again to Lestrade. His face is glowing, and he keeps sneaking glances back at John. “The lack of struggle combined with the fact that the organs were excised while she was still alive would indicate heavy sedation. Have a comprehensive tox screen analysis. Also, find her purse. This will go more quickly if we know who she is. Check the area nightclubs and find the boyfriend that gave her the watch.”

His glance darts back to John, who's looking more relaxed, and is intently watching Sherlock, but is still pale. There are gray bags under his eyes, he looks both tired and wound up. Sherlock isn't surprised, given the revelation that has occurred in the past fifteen minutes.

“I have to get John--. We're going home. Let me know when you've got the corpse on a slab. Alright, Lestrade?”

Lestrade nods. He's never seen Sherlock show concern for, or even a rudimentary social awareness of, another human being. He wonders again who this John fellow is. Sherlock had been talking to him, _consulting_ him (without the insults), and even _touching_ the man. “Go on,” he says. “I'll call you in the morning.” He nods at John. “Nice to meet you, John.”

John inclines his head in response. “Mutual, Detective Inspector.” He smiles, then, and the lines in his face break from something weary and worn to a bright, vivacious grin. “It's been a pleasure.” Which is a strange thing to say in an alleyway with a half-emptied dead woman at their feet. Lestrade considers that perhaps John and Sherlock were _made_ for each other.

When they get home, Sherlock flaps his hand toward the kitchen as he removes his coat. “Tea,” he says. John obligingly heads for the kitchen and switches the kettle on. They settle into their chairs with their tea a few minutes later. Sherlock leans forward, elbows on his knees, and the mug clasped loosely in his hands.

“Tell me what you know about bodies, John. And how.”

John stares down at his mug for a minute, inhaling the fragrant steam while he thinks. “I'm a doctor,” he says slowly “I know it. There's my life, with you.... And then there's this stuff in my head. Pouring into my brain. It's from a different place. All this information about anatomy and pathogens, trauma and pharmacology. I... I _care_ for other humans, Sherlock. And I want to fix them when they're broken. That's something that I do. I _can_ do.” He rubs a hand across his face. “I don't understand. I have memories of... of _doing_ it. I've sewn together men on the battlefield...” John shudders deeply, and a bit of his tea sloshes over. He sets the mug down and pulls out a tissue to wipe the spot off the floor. He looks worriedly at Sherlock. “What does this mean?”

Sherlock shakes his head. His eyes are fireworks of gray and blue, dazzling and obsessive. “You're just so _interesting_ , John. I can’t predict what you’ll do next. What do you mean ‘battlefield’?”

John stares at Sherlock, and his eyes are dark, so dark and blown they’re nearly black. His face is still and frozen. “I’m a soldier?” But his voice doesn't rise at the end of the question. He’s asking Sherlock to explain, not confirm.

“Huh.” Sherlock releases a puff of air like a minor explosion. “It makes sense. More sense than being a doctor. I mean, you came from a camouflage egg. You’ve got weapons, and seem to know how to use them.” He pauses for a minute. “John, can you dissociate from the knives? Put them down, or throw them?” As always, Sherlock is sidetracked with experimental questions.

John looks considering. He twitches his knives into place in his palms, and looks at a yellow smiley face painted on the wall over the sofa. “I’ll aim over there?” Sherlock shrugs. He doesn’t care where John aims, nothing in the flat is irreplaceable or sacrosanct.

_Thwack! Thwack!_ The sounds of the knives sinking deep into the wall are so close together as to be almost one. Sherlock jolts up in his chair. There’s a handle vibrating out of each yellow eye.

“You have excellent aim, John,” Sherlock rumbles, very approving. John eyes crinkle, and his lips twitch. He twists his hands and the knives are once again clasped in his palms. He winks them out.

“Fascinating.”

John smiles in response, but his face is tense and worried. “I’m a soldier,” he repeats softly. “There’s something about that....” He leans his head back and stares at the ceiling. “Something is... a bit not good.”

After a prolonged silence, Sherlock stands up and walks over behind his stressed and tired John. He cards his hands through John's short hair, rubbing light circles against his temples, and the curve of bone behind his ear. Sherlock doesn’t touch people as a general rule, but John is not a _person_. He’s more like... Sherlock doesn’t know what to call him. A pet, perhaps? No, too demeaning. He brooded the egg, was there when John hatched, helped him into the world. His hatchling. Sherlock feels attached to him just as much as John obviously feels attached to Sherlock. Sherlock decides not to name their relationship at this point. Certainly John is more than an experiment.

John closes his eyes and leans his head back into Sherlock’s hands. The gentle massage continues, and soon John is asleep. Sherlock leaves him in his chair and throws himself on the sofa to think. He pyramids his hands under his chin and closes his eyes. How can John _know_ he’s a doctor. _And_ a soldier. When he’s less than a week old? Of course, how can _any_ of this be happening. In a moment, Sherlock will stand up and start more notes in the lab book about John.

Sherlock carries him to the bed after a few hours, rather inelegantly, but John is so deeply asleep as to be almost unconscious, and so he doesn't stir. Tossing the blankets over him, Sherlock continues with his ruminations late into the night before slipping under the sheets with John. He rubs his nose in the short, tickling hair on John's head, and breathes in the warm, earthy smell of him. It makes Sherlock strangely happy to nestle here, in a bed he'd only previously designated for passing out when he was at the end of his rope. He pulls and prods at John until he's tugged the smaller man up to curl against his chest, spooning him. John is yielding, and slurs _Sherlock_ with barely opened eyes before settling back into sleep. Sherlock bends his arms tightly around John's chest and follows him there.

They sleep late into the morning.


	8. Captain John Watson

They go to St. Barts late the next afternoon. Sherlock wants to examine the latest body again, and he hopes that the DNA results are back as well. John tags along as usual, although Sherlock notices that there’s more distance between them than there had been prior. In the cab, John sits almost a foot away, and their shoulders do not brush as they enter the hospital.

Sherlock is not very happy about this, if he were to examine it closely. He doesn’t of course, because that’s sentiment, and John is the most amazing experiment he’s ever been involved in. It’s far more important to record the data than to influence it. But he wonders whether it’s deliberate or not, this physical distancing between himself and his... hatchling.

While they wait for Molly to wheel out the eviscerated woman, John stands near the door, both feet firmly planted, shoulders back, hands loosely clasped behind his back. It’s the parade rest stance, Sherlock recognizes. _How_ does he come by this innate knowledge, this ready-learned history? The timidity with which John followed Sherlock in the beginning, when he was imprinting, is gone. Sherlock wonders if he misses it. Perhaps. A little. But he suspects that the independent John developing before his eyes is a much meatier and more satisfying mouthful, and he’s excited to explore the new territory. He makes a mental note to continue with physical contact, so as to notice if John should draw away further. Was imprinting only temporary? Certainly that’s what happens in nature, or ducklings would never leave their mothers to find their own lives and mates. Huh.

Molly arrives with the body. “Ok. You know, they say death leaves the body as just a shell...” she bites her lip, and her mouth is pulled into an uncertain smile.

Sherlock shrugs a shoulder dismissively. “Don't try to make jokes, Molly. It doesn't suit you.” Even John knows this is cruel, and he frowns fiercely at Sherlock, who ignores him.

Molly looks down, and a flush floats gently across her face. She doesn't look at John. “Well, this one is just like the others. Missing organs include the liver, both kidneys, both lungs and the heart. They didn’t do a very good job on the lungs, they’re only partially removed. If their idea is to sell them for transplants, the lungs will be a failure.” She pauses for a moment. “At least, DI Lestrade said he thought it might be black market organ harvesting?”

“Yes, yes, Molly. Now do be quiet....” Sherlock scans the body again. Washed clean of the blood, it’s now more obviously a woman, whose badly bleached hair is limp and sad against lifeless skin. “Look at this bruising, John,” he calls out. John squeezes up next to him, and Sherlock indicates three faintly reddish marks along the woman's ribs.

John nods. “Yes. They seem to be from fingers.”

Sherlock presses his hands against the marks, but overshoots them by a good 4cm. “Place your fingers over these marks, John,” Sherlock commands. John snaps on some gloves and reaches awkwardly around, and then settles his thumb into the larger bruise and the first two fingers against the other two. The fit his natural hand span. “If you were right-handed, John, would you say this is where you'd hold the body against the pressure of incision during surgery?”

“I think so,” John replies. It hardly feels natural, being his non-dominant hand, but if he switches sides in his mind, that's where his hand would be, yes.

“But look at these, John,” Sherlock indicates another set, arranged in a more circular fashion, low on her hip, wrapping around to her rear. “Try to match these.” John shifts and twists his wrist. The arm that produced this pattern was coming from the top of the woman, rather than low on the front. He scoots around Sherlock to change the angle. But with his thumb in the larger oval, he can't reach the other marks. Sherlock reaches over his hand, knocks it out of the way, and then lays his own fingers over. They still overshoot, but by a much smaller margin.

“There were two people dealing with this woman that night,” he says. “One was much taller than the other. Obviously the knife-work was done by the smaller of the pair: either a small man, such as yourself, or a woman. We can assume that the seducer was the larger, since the bruising on her arse is what is commonly inflicted during a passionate embrace. And we already know they were snogging, given the love bites on her neck. At least two perpetrators. Excellent.”

He flicks a look at Molly, “Have you got the completed tox screen?”

Molly hands over some papers. “Positive for alcohol, and zolpidem and propofol.”

“Ambien,” Sherlock muses. “Becoming more popular as a date rape drug. And propofol is an anesthetic. The victim should be thankful for that. ” He slides open his magnifying glass and stalks around the corpse. He pauses over her left hand. “Get me a black light, Molly,” he commands. Molly returns and Sherlock casts the light across the back of the corpse’s hand. Newly visible under the UV lamp, there are faint markings in illuminated yellow that look to John something like an S, or perhaps a snake.

“Aha!” Sherlock murmurs. “The Viper’s Pit. They have a very distinctive hand stamp. Excellent. We’ve got a starting point. How did the imbeciles at the Yard miss this? John. My phone, please.”

John reaches around Sherlock’s shoulder to slip his hand into the jacket. He skims across a hard, warm pectoral before encountering the inner pocket. He pulls forth the phone. Sherlock straightens and snaps the magnifying glass closed again. His fingers fly over the screen as he types out a text and hands it back to John. John snorts and then puts it back. Sherlock absently notes that the touching doesn’t seem to bother either of them.

Sherlock glances at the clock on the wall and decides to check on the upstairs lab and see if his DNA results are back. “John, stay here with Molly. I’ll be back shortly.” And he swirls out of the room before John or Molly can protest.

“Mmmm. Okay.” Molly seems nervous and uncomfortable. John smiles reassuringly at her. He doesn’t understand that she sees him as competition. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name?” she starts.

“John Watson,” he replies absently.

Then he goes rigid.

 

Sherlock sits in front of the computer in the lab after sending the tech out after some coffee. The results are back, and John is undeniably, 100% human. There are no anomalies to account for the knives, or the wings. He grimaces and begins hacking into the national DNA database. Just to be thorough. He’ll run comparisons with John’s DNA. Perhaps there’s family out there somewhere, and by some small stroke of luck, they’re criminals, or military, or for some other reason registered in the database. He should get those results back in a couple of hours. He strides back to the morgue.

When he gets there, John is sitting haphazardly in a chair, white-faced and clammy. Molly is balanced anxiously in front of him, squatting on her haunches.

“What happened here?” Sherlock asks immediately, sweeping over to John. He lays his hand on John’s shoulder and John slowly turns his head, as if through treacle. He peers at Sherlock.

“I don’t know--” Molly begins. And at the same time,

“I’m John Watson,” says John, voice hollow and thin. “Sherlock. I’m John Watson. Dr. Watson. Captain Watson. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

“What? Really?” Sherlock is surprised. He looks at the very puzzled Molly and hauls John up forcibly by one arm. “You don’t look very well, John. Let’s get you home.” He points his chin over at the body on the slab. “Molly, you can put it away now.”

Sherlock stuffs John, unresisting and in shock, into his jacket, and slings his own on as well. Then he propels John down the hall to fetch a cab back to Baker St. Sherlock’s mind is spinning, fitting together explanations and potential scenarios, all of which are preposterous.

John is dizzy and sick with distress. He shivers violently as waves of memories wash over him. John Watson. He remembers growing up in the suburbs of Northumberland. Fighting with his sister. Dodging his angry dad, and swallowing his fury at his shamelessly servile mother. He remembers rugby and football in high school, and his determination to be a doctor. He remembers signing up with the military, to pay for his education. He remembers Afghanistan, the arid heat, the alien culture, robes of beige and black, rifles and machine guns, dust and spices. He remembers working in the tent, with men moaning and crying, or stoically silent; stitching and bandaging, never enough time to stop and hold a hand; the intermittent percussion of gunshots and explosions outside.

He remembers the patrols, packing 35 kilos in gear, med kit stocked and ready to go. He remembers a dusty reddish dawn, when hell broke loose. He remembers running forward with his men, dodging through a chain of exploding IEDs, the quiet village they were sneaking around suddenly lit and cacophonous. Millhouse, Blevins, and Erikkson all dead, young Connery screaming hoarsely behind a flaming car. Fire and greasy black smoke roiling from windows across the road, and half his team blown into bits along shells of houses. He remembers rushing to Connery, thinking _I can save this one_. He remembers another explosion, staccato gunfire, and then.... The shock of it. Not pain. Surprise. Body out of control, jerking and then falling. He remembers staring at the back of Connery’s head, wanting to help him. Thinking _Please God, let me live_.

Sherlock supports most of John's weight as he hails a cab. The man’s legs are buckling, and he sags into Sherlock’s locked arms, breathing shallowly. “I remember,” he keeps whispering. “I remember.”

Sherlock is as worried for him as he’s ever been, and absentmindedly pats his hand as they fly back home. “John,” he says, trying to get through. “John.” But John is lost in his own head, and Sherlock has to manhandle him out of the cab. He tries to hold John upright between himself and the door as he reaches for the key. John growls out, “I remember the war. The guns. The guns!” He begins to struggle, and Sherlock nearly drops the keys back into his pocket trying to hold him tighter. The knives flash into existence, and John’s struggles become very difficult to subdue. Suddenly, the wings are out, still straight down along his back, not spread, thank god. John is saying “ _Let me live, please god, let me live_ ,” and his wings are flailing, beating and straining against Sherlock’s caging arms.

“John, stop it! John! You can’t do that!” Sherlock spreads the edges of his coat, attempting to conceal John from the street. John’s wings are very strong, and Sherlock throws his entire body behind clutching them in. He twists the key in the lock as John’s knife flashes down, scoring against the back of his hand, the other twisting behind him to rake along Sherlock’s ribs.

The door falls open, and both of them tumble inside, Sherlock releasing John in shocked repulsion as he registers that he is wounded. John springs away, and his wings are spread as wide as they are able, in the foyer, arching above his head. He whips around. Thrashing wings knock over Mrs. Hudson’s half-moon table and flowers with a crash that makes them both startle even more. Sherlock can see a tiny spatter of his own blood hit the floor, dripping from the point of John’s knife.


	9. Stitches

Sherlock rolls enough to kick the door closed behind them. He reaches up and locks it for good measure, and then slumps against the door, pressing his wounded hand against his coat, and holding his other arm against his ribs. “John Watson!” he shouts. “Calm down right now!” He remains on the floor, knowing that makes him less of a threat.

John freezes, but his eyes are glassy, his stare a thousand yards, and he’s gasping and shaking. His wings thrash agitatedly, scraping against the wall and tangling in the rails of the banisters. Sherlock doesn’t move. He lowers his voice, uses his egg-croon cadence. “John. My John. I don’t know what you’re remembering, but you’re safe here. You’re safe. You’re in Baker Street, with me. We can have tea,” Sherlock is desperate. He can see this is a panic attack, presumably set off from memories of another life? He lets his pitch drop again, and slows his tempo even more. “Let’s go upstairs, John. We’ll have tea, and a sit down. You can sit in your own chair. Ok?”

Slowly, John’s focus returns to Sherlock, seeking his eyes first. His shoulders lower slightly, and the wings follow suit. “Good, John. Very good. You’re relaxing.” Sherlock shifts against the door, warily watching to see John’s reaction to the movement. He tracks it, but does nothing. “I’m getting up now, alright? So we can go upstairs. To our home. Alright, John?” Sherlock pulls himself upright. He notes the sting of his cuts, but ignores them. He moves slowly to the stairs. “Coming with, John?” And with that, he deliberately turns his back and climbs the steps.

He can hear John follow.

Sherlock drips blood onto the counter as he fumbles for the kettle, but he ignores it. John is behind his shoulder, his ragged breathing evening out. Sherlock, on the other hand, begins to shake a little. The kettle on, he scrabbles for the kitchen towel, hoping to hold it across his wound and staunch the flow of blood. A hand crosses his field of view and firmly grips around his wrist.

“I’m sorry,” John whispers. “Sherlock. I’m sorry. I don’t know--”

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock interrupts. “Just a cut. You were quite discomposed.” He turns to look at John, who is looking much better now. Still pale, but _present_ , in a way he hasn’t been since the morgue at St. Barts. The wings are still out, brown and gold and gray, fluttering softly, protectively arching as if to cage both men. The knives have vanished. Sherlock lifts his arm, wanting to stroke John's feathers, but aborts the move as blood streams between his fingers. He's not sure how John would clean his wings, if Sherlock were to get blood all over them. Would he preen, like a bird? Wash them in the shower? Would he need _help_? But these thoughts are fleeting, and meanwhile, Sherlock bleeds.

John laughs a little, without humor. “Discomposed. I guess you could say so.” He looks at Sherlock's bleeding hand. “Do you have a med kit? Some supplies? I can take care of this.” He makes an apologetic face and repeats, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what I was doing.” He can see the muscle and a tendon through the cut, and knows this will need stitches. To Sherlock's disappointment, and before he can touch them, John flicks his wings away. It's more practical, surely, in such a tiny space, but certainly less interesting and aesthetic.

John feels calm settle over him now. He is old friends with this situation: sewing up a man in the midst of chaos. That the chaos exists only in his own head makes no difference. Sherlock gropes for a first aid kit in the cabinet, and John takes it from him. He goes through the contents knowledgeably. The kit is better stocked then most, with sutures and sterile gloves. John snaps them on and gets to work.

He washes the cut over the sink and then pushes Sherlock into a chair. Sherlock watches him with interest, as if this is a test: is John really a doctor? John isn't worried about passing it. Although it's a hand, and needs more stitches per centimeter than other places on the body, his work is neat and effective.

“Breathe,” he instructs Sherlock firmly at one point. Surprised, Sherlock realizes he's been holding his breath to the point where he's feeling faint. It hurts, of course. Not only the cut, but the needle, feeding in and out of his flesh, tugging sharply at the skin. He sucks in a breath and focuses on in and out. John smiles faintly. At last, he bandages it up and steps back. “There. It feels good to do that again. Although I'm sorry I'm the one that caused it.”

“I can give you more to practice on,” Sherlock responds dryly. John's face goes through a comical variety of expressions, before settling on chagrin.

“Don't tell me I got you somewhere else? Let me see...”

Sherlock shrugs out of his coat and begins to clumsily unbutton his shirt. It's ruined, and he reflects that he's glad it was the white one, which was stained and being replaced this week anyway. Now it's red with blood, and John hisses in sympathy. “I'm so sorry.”

“Will you stop with the apologies? I know you're sorry, and frankly I don't really care. You didn't do any real damage, and it's only transport.”

John takes over unbuttoning and gently eases Sherlock out of the sticky, clinging shirt. “What's only transport?” he asks. He examines the cut: a 15 centimeter scrape across the ribs, from Sherlock's back to under his arm. He tries to maintain a professional detachment as he smooths a dampened towel over pale skin, marbled with streaks and smears and rivulets of blood. Sherlock is lean: there is no fat to pad between muscle and skin over his ribs. John wipes up to his armpit, strangely vulnerable, the skin there nearly blue around a sparse patch of soft black hair. John holds him steady with his other hand, so that he is clasping the narrow girth of Sherlock's ribs. His hands are hot and strong. Sherlock is so slender that those short fingers can wrap from his front to his back.

All this takes place in a mere moment, and John jerks his gaze up to Sherlock's, cheeks flushing with dawning (and utterly _inappropriate_!) arousal and embarrassment.

Sherlock stares back, pupils blown, eyes a nearly iridescent turquoise. Under the kitchen light, pink lips shine in wet reflection as he swipes his tongue over them. John's hands spasm, and Sherlock gasps in pain, and just like that, the moment is gone.

Bending his head again to his task, John tries to remember the thread of the conversation. “Transport?” he asks. He methodically cleans off the remaining blood with the reddened towel as Sherlock says, “The body. Only transport. What's important is up here.” He taps at his head with his bandaged hand.

John gives him an incredulous stare. “They're _connected_ , you idiot. You have to take care of them both. Now hold still. I can close this up with butterfly bandages.” Sherlock huffs, and does as he says.

Later, they sit in their chairs with both tea and paracetamol. Sherlock jumps right in. “So. You're John Watson.”

“Yes. I ought to call my sister.” He pulls a face. “That'll be a riot.”

Sherlock makes an impatient gesture. “Are you sure? What are you going to tell her? How do you imagine you came to be in the basement? More to the point, how do you think you wound up _IN. AN. EGG?_ ”

John shrugs. “The last thing I remember from being John Watson, before hatching, is fighting in a street in Shinkay.” His fists clench. “Half the company was down. I was trying to work on a kid... Connery. His leg was blown off.... And then... I think I was shot.” He rubs his chest. “I'm sure I was shot.”

Sherlock is struck with a plan and leaps up, then hurriedly sits back down, stifling the small groan that comes with remembering he's just been sliced up. “Well! This is easily checked, isn't it? Bring me my laptop.” He imperiously holds out his hand. John fetches it without comment, and then crouches next to the chair, looking over Sherlock's shoulder.

He very quickly finds the obituary for Capt. John Watson, RAMC. Killed in action four months earlier, mourned and survived by sister Harriet Watson. There is a picture: it is John's face, somewhat less lined and tired. He is proud and serious under a jaunty red beret. If John weren't already sitting down, this would have done it. Even Sherlock sits confounded, shaking his head.


	10. Mycroft Interferes (or, from his perspective, Intervenes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just added amazing art by [vanimelda4](http://vanimelda4.tumblr.com/post/96210689286/quick-doodle-based-on-the-fanfic-murderous), lovingly nestled at the end of this chapter, of John in the process of manifesting his wings.  It's gorgeous, y'all.  Go give that woman the kudos she deserves, and then follow her [tumblr](http://vanimelda4.tumblr.com/) for a plethora of incredible Sherlock drawings and paintings.

It is early in the afternoon. Footsteps mark their measured way up the seventeen steps to the flat, and Sherlock knows it is Mycroft. This does not surprise him; he's been expecting it. Surely one of Mycroft's minions had noticed the giant wings, obscured as much as he'd been able, but still briefly visible on the CCTV camera that seems permanently pointed at his front door. He doesn't think he can keep it a secret, but he sure isn't going to help Mycroft figure John out.

Mycroft taps twice, politely, on the living room door, peering in at them as if this is just a social call. His faux smile is in evidence. “Sherlock,” he greets politely, but his eyes immediately swing over to John, regarding him with powerful and inadequately concealed interest.

“Bloody interfering bastard,” Sherlock mutters under his breath. But just loud enough for Mycroft to hear him. “Sticking your fat nose into--”

“Now, brother,” Mycroft comes in, umbrella swinging from his left hand. “Etiquette, remember? Why don't you invite me in and introduce me to your new... friend.”

John's eyebrows go up. He was unaware that Sherlock had a brother. The man is as tall as Sherlock himself, and primly dressed in a three piece suit. He holds a furled umbrella in one hand, as if it is a prop. Which it must be, seeing as how it hasn't been raining outside. The man's smooth, high forehead wrinkles a bit as his own eyebrow rises. He walks over and holds out his hand.

“How do you do? Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's elder brother.”

“And _not_ my keeper!” Sherlock snaps. Mycroft ignores him, waiting for John to respond.

John has remembered his manners along with his identity, and comes to his feet, holding out his own hand. “Nice to meet you, sir. I'm John Watson.” They shake hands, and then there's an awkward silence in the flat. John stirs uncomfortably under Mycroft's penetrating stare. “Would you like some tea?”

“Tea would be lovely,” Mycroft replies, at the same time Sherlock interjects, “No, he'll just be leaving.”

But this is the game the brothers play; they both know their roles well. Mycroft will not leave until his curiosity is satisfied, and Sherlock needs his help this time.

A few minutes later they are all arranged in the sitting room. Mycroft is in Sherlock's chair, John in his own, and Sherlock is flung with abandon full length on the sofa, pouting, with one arm mostly over his eyes. They're slitted open, though, and keeping tabs on the scene in front of him.

“You've moved in recently, then?” Mycroft delicately begins the interrogation.

John already looks nervous. He doesn't know if he should say _One week since I hatched_ ; or _Three and a half months since Sherlock found my egg_ ; or, _Four months ago, after I died in Afghanistan_. Well, he's positive selecting the last one is actually not a good choice. He looks to Sherlock for guidance.

“He moved in last week,” Sherlock says impatiently, tugging at the bandage wrapped around his hand. “He's recently back from Afghanistan, Mycroft. Why aren't you minding your own bloody business? Wouldn't you rather be eating some cake somewhere? Behind a desk, perhaps?”

Mycroft looks chiding. “But Sherlock. I've got the most interesting pictures to show you. I thought you might help me solve a little mystery.” He pulls printouts of CCTV shots from a briefcase.

“I'm not interested in helping you solve your mysteries, Mycroft. Surely even with your limited intellect, you can do it yourself. I'm amazed you even managed to prise your significant bulk away from your desk.”

John stays quiet, looking back and forth between the brothers as they snap and spar. He tries to see what pictures Mycroft is holding, but they are tilted the wrong way. Mycroft stands up and moves to sit on the sofa next to Sherlock, shoving his legs onto the floor. Sherlock hisses in discomfort, as his ribs are tweaked, but Mycroft ignores it. He spreads six pictures across the coffee table. Sherlock pointedly refuses to look, but John comes over and checks them out.

He sees photos of Sherlock bundling his mostly limp body out of a cab, then on the stoop to the front door. The next shot shows them struggling, and then there are a pair of wings stretching out, many feet on each side, although by no means fully extended. In the next frame, Sherlock's arms are visibly trying to contain and pull in the wings. John is concealed behind his body. In the last shot, the door is open, the two men are tumbling inside, and one long brown wing is thrust halfway over the threshold. A knife flashes silver in John's hand, diving unmistakably towards Sherlock.

All three men are silent for several breaths, then, “Would you care to explain?” asks Mycroft. He is looking, not at Sherlock, but at John. John's tongue flips out nervously, and he fidgets, looking over at Sherlock. Sherlock is no help. He keeps his face turned towards the back of the sofa.

“Hhmahem,” John clears his throat. “What, exactly, needs explaining?”

Mycroft looks disbelieving, and then a tiny, genuine smile graces his face for a fraction of a second. “We could start with the wings. And then move on to the weapon, and the fact that Sherlock is clearly bandaged up and suffering from at least two knife wounds.”

“Erm. Yes. Well, I stitched up his hand. And his side is really ok, just a few bandages for that.”

“I am relieved to hear it,” Mycroft sounds minimally sarcastic. “How did this happen?”

Sherlock frowns ferociously at John. “Don't tell him anything, John. Well. About that. We'll just. Hmmm.” He sits up in agitation and stares gloomily at his brother. “I think we'll need your help.” He sounds very morose about that. “John, here. Dr. Watson. Well, it seems that he's been declared dead in battle.” He plucks at his fingers, finds them tapping rapidly against his leg. “Actually, dead and buried. And yet. Here he is.”

Mycroft stays calm. “Right. And what does this have to do with wings and weapons? You'll give me the whole story, or none at all.” And suddenly he sounds like the older brother of the past, bossing Sherlock around and threatening him with confiscating his chemistry set if he didn't behave.

Sherlock snarls. “Fine. But when I've told you, you need to fix the records, so John can have his life back. Ok?” He waits until Mycroft reluctantly nods. John pulls a chair near the sofa and has a seat as well. They all hold their mugs of tea and wait.

Sherlock begins. “I found John as an egg. Down in the basement.” He challenges Mycroft with a glare, but Mycroft remains silent. His face is incredulous, but he doesn't interrupt. “He hatched 93 days later, with a blank slate. That was a week ago. But beginning yesterday, memories have been bleeding through, and just this afternoon he recalled who he is. Was. Is.” Sherlock bends his head and scrubs his hands through his hair, agitated, taped white gauze flashing through dark locks. “And he remembers the shot that killed him. We think.” John instinctively rubs at his chest, and can feel the ghost of pain in his leg. He looks perturbed.

“You'll want proof, of course,” Sherlock says. “Probably the computer's finished running the DNA comparisons with the database by now, so we can see that.” He looks at John. “John, laptop.”

John rolls his eyes, but stands and walks over to the desk, sweeping the laptop off and tossing it at Sherlock in one smooth movement. Sherlock catches it with a glare, and pops it open. He continues talking as he runs through menus on the screen. “The egg bit is documented in detail, with pictures, in my lab notebook. But that never goes beyond this room.” He levels a very serious look at his brother. “Do you understand that, Mycroft? _Never_. Or you will have an enemy you may not be able to destroy.”

He waits. John waits. Mycroft is silent, considering. Obviously something very fantastic is going on here. Fantastic as in fantasy, sheer fantasy. So his two choices are, believing in fantasy, in which case a promise is primarily meaningless, or finding out how Sherlock is wrong, in which case his promise is invalid. “Fine,” he agrees.

Sherlock continues. “When John... hatched... he had a couple of new skills.” And he goes on to detail the knives and the wings.

“May I see?” Mycroft politely requests. But to John it feels more like an order or a threat. Sherlock grimaces at him, which means, _We don't have to like it, but do it anyway_ , so he does. He stands and moves a couple steps closer. He twists the knives into existence in his palms and offers one (only one, because he's a soldier, and doesn't trust this man) to Mycroft.

Mycroft takes it and holds it as if he's familiar with a knife, which surprises John, as he looks like such a toff. He curves his fingers around the leather-wrapped hilt and says, “Standard issue military blade. Ten inch. Ka-bar.” John flexes his hands again and both knives disappear.

Mycroft jumps a little as his hand is suddenly emptied. Sherlock smiles, smug. “Where did it... they... go?”

John shrugs. “I don't know. Back where they come from. I just _pull_ them,” he twists again, “and there they are. I can't explain better than that.” Mycroft looks surprised, and Sherlock bares a toothy, aggressive grin. John says, “It's the same with my wings.” He shrugs minutely and the wings are there, between one whisper and the next, fluttering brown and soft and vast, and then holds them still, curved near his body. He twitches his shoulders again, infinitesimally, and they vanish. Mycroft's face is colorless, slack with shock, and he stares hard trying to find the illusion.

“I've done tests,” Sherlock says smugly. “X-rays, scans, DNA and other analyses. Nothing to be found.” Although Sherlock himself isn't very happy that there's no explanation for John's existence, much less his extraordinary abilities, he is indeed happy to baffle Mycroft. He swings the laptop towards his brother. “Here. DNA's a match for Dr. John Watson, recently deceased. I'm so glad we've got a DNA database for the military.”

Mycroft looks at the results and leans back. “Show me again,” he demands.

By the end of an hour, John has gone through many iterations of _Extant_ and _Elsewhere_ , both wings and knives. Mycroft, and Sherlock too, circle around him, questioning why his wings can go through his clothes, how the knives can leave and then return. It represents a complete repudiation of physics as humanity understands it. John doesn't try to explain, because he doesn't have a clue. The Holmes brothers are more likely to figure out why this can happen than he, certainly.

Mycroft finally says, frustrated, “What are you supposed to be? An angel or something?”

John snorts. “Not likely. I'm still me. I'm only me. Just with some new... facets. Anyway, is an angel likely to cut up his... friend? By accident?”

Sherlock is surprised at the warmth he feels when John calls him friend, and he keeps his face utterly expressionless in response. Feelings make him uneasy. “You were having a very difficult time,” he explains. Stiffly. Pompously. Trying to soothe. “All your life's memories were coming back to you, and when I grabbed you, you initiated the fight or flight response. Thus the knives and wings.”

John stills for a minute, and then begins to giggle. “Fight,” he repeats. “Or flight.” He thinks of knives and wings. “Or both,” he laughs. Sherlock begins to laugh too, relieved to hear his friend content, and the absurdity of the impossible situation crashes on him, as if it's been held off for the past week. He can't stop, and John's laughter escalates until he's doubled over in his chair, wheezing and wiping tears off his cheeks.

“Sorry about cutting you,” John chortles as his breath hiccups through a laugh.

“It was nothing,” Sherlock snorts back, flapping the bandaged hand in dismissal.

They eventually settle down and lean back, panting slightly. Mycroft has watched the whole debacle without cracking a smile. Evidently, he doesn't get the joke. John and Sherlock look at each other, look at Mycroft, and begin to laugh again. The planet, after tilting wildly, seems back on its regular axis again.

When Mycroft leaves, it's with an admonishment to behave circumspectly, and a promise that he'll see what he can do to upgrade John Watson's status to alive and retired instead of dead. Of course, he plans a thorough investigation of him as well, worried that enemies have somehow (supernaturally?) managed to get a spy into the Holmes brothers lives. Sherlock knows Mycroft's plans, but is unconcerned. He knows John is exactly what he says. He just doesn't know how or why.

Sherlock and John order takeaway and lounge around the sitting room, lax with relief, days of stress released with laughter. They eat, utterly comfortable, side by side on the sofa.


	11. John Wants Boundaries

John wakes up slowly in the morning. The light filtering through the crack in the curtains is still gray with dawn, and traffic is just starting to groan to life out on Baker St. He lies peacefully for a long time, drowsy and content, brain not yet engaged. No worries, no fears. No past. No future.

He inhales Sherlock: morgue and sweat and crisp cotton. Each deep, unhurried breath is synchronized, he notes absently, with the cadence of Sherlock's own. He is poured over Sherlock's left side, ear slightly numb from the pressure of being pillowed on Sherlock's chest, skin hot and tacky between them. He feels the measured percussion of his heart, steady and torpid, at rest.

His leg is thrown over Sherlock's, worked into the space between his thighs and knees, hips canted towards Sherlock. He can feel the prickle of foreign hair on his calves. Sherlock's arm is curled possessively around him, circling under his neck and wrapping around his ribs. The bandaged hand is scratchy, fingers tucked between their bodies, just brushing his nipple. John's left arm is draped across Sherlock, his hand hooked around a sharp hip, thumb resting in the hollow below the bone. The skin here is smooth and taut, and John strokes his thumb in lazy circles, matching the rhythm of the heartbeat under his cheek. He listens vaguely to the growing drone of vitality outside.

Sherlock is lax in sleep, contrasting the growing tension in John. John's cock is pressed into Sherlock's hip, and is very happy about that. John now feels pressured and heavy, more motivated, driven by a burgeoning desire to seek friction. His erection, pleasant and flushed, gently murmurs directives of satiation, and John follows them compliantly.

He tightens his leg around Sherlock's thigh, pressing his erection more firmly, in a languid pulse, to the bony flare of hip against his groin. Indolent, he rubs, and his hand begins to tighten on Sherlock's hip, thumb dragging downward to the crease of his groin. Sherlock stirs underneath him, purrs a prelude to animation, and turns his head to nuzzle against John's hair. He sighs, and shifts, and blunders with his free hand until it tangles with John's.

“Mmm,” he grumbles, voice rough with sleep. “My John.” He is still not awake and when John goes still, he subsides, sinking again into slumber.

John has frozen. Perhaps it is hearing his name combined with a possessive that has called him into himself. His brain comes back online. And realization comes spilling over him like cold water: he is Captain John Watson, M.D., who has had an utterly strange week, and he is _humping_ the man sleeping next to him.

The _man_.

 _Sleeping next to him_.

There are so many jagged things wrong with this scenario that John would have staggered if he hadn't been already prone. He is snuggling with a man, basically a stranger, and preparing to initiate some form of morning sex. Now, John Watson isn't gay, he knows that very well. Also, John Watson doesn't shag strangers without some degree of forethought and planning.

The languorous heat of his blood goes cold, and John slowly. _slowly!_ unwinds himself from Sherlock, fighting the urge to throw himself backwards off the bed in shocked repulsion. He eases away, leaving Sherlock sleeping, and heads for the shower, where he has a wank while absolutely _refusing_ to dwell on the smooth skin and lanky body he'd woken up with.

He sits sullenly in his chair, staring vacantly out of the window, clutching the hot mug of tea, and tries not to figure out his life. It's too complex and bizarre. It has had two beginnings and one ending so far, and he doesn't know how to cope with that. It's as if split personalities are being externally imposed on him and none quite fit. Childhood!John is too limited, too immature. John from University is callow, although happy, and knows very little of the darkness in the world, despite a rocky and occasionally unpleasant home life. John of the war saw little other than darkness: blood, fear and the ugliness of human nature. Granted, there were moments of laughter, and bravery and beautiful sacrifice, too, but the balance was grim, and he can feel that built into his nerves and muscles and skin. Hatchling!John is vibrant, learning, eager and trusting. The naiveté of hatchling!John terrifies him, given his new (old) history.

And he cannot tell if his fascination with Sherlock is a weird biological hangover from hatching (imprinting, for god's sake!), or genuinely felt. In the beginning ( _last week!_ )when everything was new, following Sherlock was as irresistible as if John were actually being tugged behind on a leash. The invisible bond between them is strong, and even now John finds he has to fight it. He would have rushed out of the flat an hour ago, just to wander and calm himself down, if he could have thwarted the pull between them. He has to fight the desire to be two steps behind and one to the left of his... what? Flatmate? Friend? Fight the desire to observe Sherlock's every action and _learn_. Resist the feeling of safety and beguilement. He feels as if Sherlock is the only three-dimensional, the only _colorful_ object in any surrounding. That can't be normal. It _has_ to be the result of this whole weird egg-thing fucking with him. Even if it makes the world feel a little grayer in exchange, John wishes he could escape it. John feels manipulated, unstable, confused and angry.

And none of these musings even _begin_ to take into account the absolute biological impossibilities of the knives and wings. John doesn't entirely know how to start assimilating this change. Whereas it was normal and unsurprising to hatchling!John, all prior Johns are reeling in shock and privately wondering if any of this is actually happening. ( With the exception of childhood!John, who is wild with excitement.) He stares at his hand with sick interest, and flashes the knife across it. Given that he's remembered his past, he now recognizes it as an analog to the combat knife he'd been issued. He wonders listlessly why it couldn't have been his pistol instead. Perhaps his body can't assimilate an inanimate object with moving parts. What would happen to the shot bullets? What would spark the gunpowder? Huh.

Sherlock has awakened and strides about the flat, long robe flapping around his heels, demanding tea, and begins several hours of researching on his laptop. John hasn't made eye contact once this morning, and Sherlock appears too distracted to have noticed. John slouches in his chair and glowers. The tea is not noticeably helping. Nor is Sherlock's oblivion.

John watches him sidelong as he sits hunched over the laptop, body jittering with energy and impatience, heels clattering an irregular volley on the floor. He's curled into a frenetic comma, eyes darting furiously back and forth over the screen, fingers flying as he seeks more information. He's so vibrant that John sometimes tires just watching him.

But then his focus slips down a smooth throat, catches thoughtfully on the small beauty mark there, travels further to linger in the suprasternal notch, shadowed and enclosed in a fragile cave of tendons, collarbones like small sentries on either side. Soft, dark hair, standing out in a wild morning halo (not helped by the periodic worrying tousle) catches a stray beam of sunlight through the window. He is long, whipcord lean, and John can see rendered muscle, the tiny pith of male nipple and the bandage he taped over last night, all outlined through the thin cotton T-shirt. John's mouth is dry, and a catholic guilt rises within him. He looks away, clears his throat.

“Sherlock, I should look at those injuries.”

“They're fine,” Sherlock says curtly, not looking up.

John scowls, and hauls himself up from the morning's reverie. “I'll be back with supplies,” he warns. When he returns, Sherlock tolerates his attentions, but keeps his eyes and one hand on the laptop. Conveniently, the gash is on his left hand, so John can sneak it away long enough to peel off the bandage. There is minimal redness around the stitches, he is pleased to see, and the skin is pressed together in a neat seam, so scarring should not be excessive. He cleans it up and puts on fresh plasters. He moves around to Sherlock's other side and then pauses for a moment, touching his shirt, waiting for permission or refusal, but Sherlock just twists away a bit and ignores him completely.

John sighs, irritated that he appears to be so insignificant, and lifts the shirt, tucking it up under Sherlock's arm to keep it out of the way. He carefully removes the bandages. He can count ribs, six distinct ridges, bisected by the long laceration. It is minor, all things considered, and John is very grateful he didn't do more damage. His warm fingertips hold Sherlock in place as he cleans and recovers it. And he utterly fails to ignore the enticing expanse of skin, cool and breathing, six inches from his nose. Dammit. Sherlock stays focused on his screen, only grunts when John pulls away and tugs the shirt back down. John assumes that translates into “Thanks for taking care of the wounds you inflicted on me in the first place.” There is no answer to that, so he stays quiet.

 

 

Early that afternoon the sound of the doorbell shivers through the flat, and Sherlock lifts his head, scrubs his fingers through shower-damp hair. “Lestrade,” he announces. They hear the murmur of Mrs. Hudson's voice, and then Lestrade thuds up the steps. He pokes his head around the door.

“Afternoon, Sherlock. John,” he greets. He's neatly dressed in a loose gray suit, brown eyes warm and bright. John looks sourly at him. Lestrade knows himself. He knows who he is, and where he belongs, and what he's supposed to be doing, and John feels like that is terribly unfair at this point. Lestrade looks mildly taken aback at John's expression, but turns to Sherlock nonetheless. “I've got a warrant for the nightclub, if we'll be needing it. I thought it better to be prepared. I'm heading there now to see what I can find. We've ID'd the victim, name of Jazmine Arat, 24, did nails at Tips and Toes on Mount Street.”

Sherlock stands, looking interested. “I've been reviewing my notes on the other four victims,” he says. “The knife-work is definitely the same. If you note the locations of the bodies,” he steps over to the sofa and indicates the map pinned to the wall behind it, “you'll see that they're all within less than a half-mile radius of the Viper's Pit. One for certain didn't have the club stamp, I would remember. The second body was badly abraded across the hands, so evidence destroyed. The fourth body was submerged in a skip for two days, after that nightmare rainstorm last month, and the stamp wouldn't have survived the soaking. The third, well, either I overlooked it, or it wasn't there.” Sherlock looked very frustrated at this potential incompetency.

Lestrade stands next to Sherlock, hands in his pockets, staring at the wall. His head is tilted attentively, hands clasped loosely behind his back. He nods. “Huh.”

In spite of his sulk, John comes over as well, and finds, somewhat to his dismay, that he is just behind Sherlock's left shoulder, as usual. But the pattern shown on the map is interesting, and now that the club has been identified, the random scattering of pins has more cohesion and meaning. His eyes flick to the right, where Polaroids of the different corpses are pinned, string leading from each to a separate pin on the map.

Lestrade says, “Coming with, then?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replies, distracted. “Well. We'll be right behind you.”

Lestrade grimaces, then smiles and leaves the flat with a nod at John, who nods politely back. This is only his third meeting with the man, but he likes him. He seems steady, thorough and friendly.

Sherlock whirls over the coffee table and snatches up John's jacket. He begins to jam him into it. “Come _on_ , John,” he says in an excited rush. “There's no time to waste. We must be off. The _case_ , John...”

John jerks back and snatches his coat out of Sherlock's hand. The pained musings of the morning are spilling out of him. “God, Sherlock,” he shouts. “I'm not a toddler. I can dress myself, you know!”

Sherlock freezes, utterly shocked. John continues, “I'm not... I'm not a _duckling_. I remember what you told the Detective Inspector about _imprinting_. Just because I've come out of an egg--!” They both pause for a silent moment, examining the patent absurdity of that statement. John continues, “I'm a full grown man. I'm a _soldier_ , for god's sake. I've been on my own for decades. Well, before I. Humph. Yeah, well, before I hatched out here. I'm not your _pet_!” John is pondering the personal and philosophical ramifications of being both a full grown man and fighting the instinct of imprinting. So John backs several steps away, just to show himself that he can. He ignores the pull in his chest that protests the meager separation.

After his first surprised and hurt expression, Sherlock precisely excises any emotion from his face. He stands, blank and impassive before John, hands dangling along his sides.

John's anger diminishes a little, blowing away under guilt. Sherlock has never done anything as degrading as refer to him as a pet, of course. He's been nothing but kind, patient, eager and painstakingly nurturing. He's never directed the venom of which he is capable at John, although he is occasionally oblivious. John steels himself against gentler emotions, trying to hold on to his anger and independence.

Of course, what does that get him? He's legally dead. Possibly dead in every way, really. As weird as the situation is, this could all be some strange pre-death dream in the flaming streets of Afghanistan. Sherlock is certainly a surreal enough creature. It's really not a terrible way to go, he thinks, if this Baker Street life is a dream.

And if it's real, if he pulls away from Sherlock, what does he have? Back to the army to get shot at some more? Endless rounds in sterile hospital halls? Holidays spent trying to figure out reasonable excuses to avoid his family?

And what does Sherlock offer if he stays? Excitement. Unpredictability. Acceptance. John muses on the crime scenes that are such a big part of Sherlock's life. Danger. Criminals. Problem solving. Camaraderie.

Huh.

John's brain doesn't work as fast as Sherlock's. No one's does. So these thoughts take several minutes to chase themselves through his head. By the time he snaps back, Sherlock has dumped his jacket on the table and turned away.

“Wait! Sherlock....” John feels awful, and the invisible tether drawing him after Sherlock is strong and difficult to resist. John follows. “I'm sorry,” he begins. He's going to offer an excuse. Growing pains, perhaps, or something like that, but Sherlock doesn't give him an opportunity.

“Fine,” he says shortly. “Come along if you wish.” His joy and excitement are dampened, and John feels miserable.

“Yes. Yes, of course....” John hurries down the stairs after Sherlock, and slips into the cab behind him, almost as if scared he'll be left behind.

As Sherlock directs the cabbie to the Viper's Pit, John debates where he should sit. Certainly not pressed to Sherlock's side, as he had done for the first few days. But fully against the other door seems too far away. John settles for the middle ground, and looks to Sherlock with a self-deprecating smile.

The skin smooths around Sherlock's eyes, and the tension around them fades away.


	12. The Viper's Pit

The ride to Mount St. takes under 10 minutes. Lestrade is standing in front of the club when they exit the taxi. The Viper's Pit has a black awning, with its name in gold flanking the curled snake from the hand stamp. The doors behind Lestrade are ancient: solid wood, decorated with twisting wrought iron applied in dizzying and disturbing patterns. There are no windows in the gray stone building.

“Took you long enough,” Lestrade grumps. Sherlock simply shoots him an unreadable look with a sideways glance and steps around him to tug on the handle. The door opens easily, and Sherlock immediately disappears into the dark interior. John grimaces uncomfortably at Lestrade and twitches a hand towards Sherlock's retreating back. “He's.... er.... sorry. We had a bit of a talk before we came,” he tries to excuse the delay.

Lestrade looks closely at the unassuming little man and then grins, quite large. A lover's tiff, is it? How entertaining to consider Sherlock in such domestic surroundings. “No worries, mate,” he replies easily. “I could keep for ten minutes.” They follow Sherlock in.

The entry hall is obviously where the people queue up to buy tickets. John hears early Sabbath quietly pumping from the large space to the right, harshly lit in the glare of fluorescent overheads. What he can see of the vast room seems empty, except for a long bar against the back wall and a DJ booth in the corner. There is a smaller room to the left, with billiard tables and dart boards and another unmanned bar. The vacancy is unsurprising, given that it's only mid afternoon. This place probably isn't officially open yet. There are wide stairs leading up to a second story and Sherlock is bounding up them two at a time. “Office,” he explains laconically over his shoulder. John frowns a little, thinking Sherlock should move more carefully, to avoid stressing the wound on his side. But even after knowing Sherlock for only a week, John recognizes the futility of that pursuit. He supposes he may hear about it if Sherlock begins bleeding through his shirt.

The upper story of the club is laid out with office and loos on one side, and a large performance space on the other. The walls are painted black with virulent patterns and graffiti in colors that will obviously glow under black lights. Right now, like downstairs, the fluorescents are on, showing wear and tear that definitely would detract from the mystery of a nightclub at full swing in the late hours of the night.

Sherlock pulls open the door on the left, and a gruff voice inside says “Hallo,” surprised. “Can I help you?” Sherlock sweeps in, John and Lestrade are just behind him.

“I certainly hope so,” Sherlock replies. “We're investigating a series of murders that seems to be centered around your club.”

Lestrade rolls his eyes at the lack of introduction, but pulls out his warrant card to flash at the man behind the desk. This gentleman stands up... and keeps rising. He must be at least 200cm, dwarfing Sherlock like a redwood to a pine. John blinks, feeling inadequately undersized in the room.

“I'm Vonnegut Stacey,” the man says, reaching a hand out to take Lestrade's card and inspect it. “I'm the owner here.” He takes a minute to inspect the card. John studies him. He's comically tall, but that's the only thing funny about him. His red hair is short, except for a long braided goatee on his chin. He is wearing a tight black tee, under which thick muscles are delineated. The skin of his arms and neck is covered in ink, too much to make out any specific images. He wears elegant suit pants, clearly bespoke for someone of his proportions, and a gray jacket is tossed on a black leather sofa against the wall. He is as stylish as Sherlock, in his own way, and an imposing figure.

Sherlock, meanwhile, settles into a battered red leather chair across from the desk.

“D.I. Lestrade,” Lestrade introduces himself. “Sherlock Holmes and his...” a discreet pause, “...his colleague are assisting in this investigation.

“Dr. John Watson,” John says, offering the giant his hand. It is shaken, firmly and professionally: no need for a pissing contest with this man.

Sherlock shrugs off the need for social niceties. He leans forward on his chair, fingers lightly touching against his chin. “Have you heard of the string of eviscerations happening nearby?”

The nightclub owner is no thick piece of muscle, though he may look it. He doesn't ask for a definition. “There have been several murders in the last few months where the organs were taken,” he acknowledges. “This is the first time I've heard about my club being involved. Would you care to elaborate?” He sits back down and waves John and Lestrade over to the sofa.

“Not several.” Sherlock corrects. “Five so far. The latest woman was found on Sunday.”

Stacey nods, expression neutral, but eyes politely on Sherlock. “I saw that on the telly,” he confirms. “It happened here in Mayfair. I didn't realize she was number five. So. This is a serial killer, then? In our neighborhood?”

Sherlock looks at him appraisingly. He isn't a complete imbecile, how refreshing. “Obviously,” he scoffs.

Lestrade groans under his breath. It wasn't anything the press hadn't already sensationalized, but he really doesn't want a panic. Does Sherlock _have_ to confirm it? Can he just not _help_ himself?

“We have evidence that the latest victim was here until closing on Saturday. I'd like to look around, talk to your staff, see what I can find.”

Stacey nodded. “Of course. What is this evidence?”

“Club stamp on her hand,” Sherlock replies.

“And the bar tab in her handbag,” Lestrade adds.

“You found her handbag?” Sherlock asks, diverted. “I'll want to see that.”

“Yes, yes, Sherlock. When we're done here.”

Stacey looks at the D.I. “You have a warrant?”

“We do,” Lestrade answers. “Would we need it?”

Stacey smiles tightly. “I wasn't born yesterday,” he says. “I'm not interested in anything being pinned on me because it's convenient for you.”

Admiration flashes momentarily across Sherlock's face, and John feels an illogical jealously. So _what_ if Sherlock is attracted to that handsome, unique, intelligent giant, who is as much taller than Sherlock as Sherlock is taller than John. More so, even. Certainly it shouldn't matter to John. Feeling deficient was ridiculous.

Several days earlier, Sherlock had brought John to his tailor to fit for a suit, but John realized he was more comfortable in the jeans and jumpers they'd picked up at H&M while waiting for the suit to come in. Now, of course, remembering who he is, John understands that preference. Nonetheless, he feels frumpy, and is discomfited by that. He frowns at his lap, and misses the sharp, assessing look Sherlock runs over him.

“--come downstairs. I'll get you Jerry, who tends in the Disco Den. Alito is here too, he keeps the bar for the Cave. We don't have a show scheduled for the Lair tonight, so Chris and Joplin are off. The security staff should be coming in around four o'clock. The other bartenders won't be here for hours.”

Sherlock pulls a face. “We'll talk to who's here, and come back a little later. Eight or nine?”

Stacey nods.

Lestrade leans forward and pulls a photo from his jacket pocket. It is Jazmine Arat, looking far more lively than when John had last seen her, in a shot that's been pulled from some social media account. “Does she look familiar?”

Stacey takes the photo and studies it seriously for a couple minutes. “No,” he finally says. “But we get hundreds through here every night. I couldn't possibly recognize all of them. I'm sorry.”

Stacey stands, and Sherlock uncoils gracefully from his chair, running his fingers thoughtfully across the top of the blue scarf, drawing attention to his long, pale neck. He tilts his head back to look up at Stacey through his lashes, almost coy, and lifts a brow. “Lead the way, then,” he suggests. And his voice is pitched lower than usual. John clenches his fists, and grinds his teeth as he stands, too. Stacey looks surprised for just a minute, but holds the office door open for Sherlock and guides him out with a quick hand on his back.

John growls almost imperceptibly and Lestrade gives him a worried look. They all troop downstairs, where Stacey assembles what staff is there at this time. The staff know nothing, don't recognize the picture, and some haven't even heard about the most recent murder.

Sherlock snarls at their collective stupidity and stalks off to look around. “Come _on_ , John,” he says, in a bizarre replay of an hour earlier. “I need to look around. I need data, John. Data!” This time around, John doesn't argue, and can't stop himself from tossing a triumphant glance at Stacey before marching after Sherlock to the Disco Den.

“Fog machine,” Sherlock says, some time later. “This is the one that must have coated the victim in residue. It's the only fog machine in the club at the appropriate angle to a bar stool.” He squats, turns, walks forwards and back, peering critically from the bar to the machine, and then calls out, “You. Jerry, is it? Can you turn this thing on for me?”

The slim, dark-skinned man behind the bar grins broadly (today had been far more exciting than he'd expected, what with police and serial murders in lieu of inventory, restocking and mopping). “Sure,” he says, casually, and flicks the switch. The machine quietly begins to churn, and white fog trickles out, sickly sweet, until it becomes a great cloud.

Sherlock herds John to a stool, and pushes at him until he sits on it. “Here, John. Sit.”

“For god's sake, Sherlock!” John explodes.

But Sherlock just sneers. “I'm not treating you like a _toddler_ , John,” he explains, irritated. “I'm treating you like a _partner_.”

John subsides. What else can he do? Sherlock pulls off his jacket and jumper, much to John's confusion, then makes him roll up the shirt sleeve under them to well above his elbow. John wrinkles his nose at the fog crawling up his pant legs, but goes along willingly. He's being a partner, and this is for data. Sherlock makes him sit there for a solid 15 minutes, drinking (with his _wrong_ hand, because the woman had been right-handed) the soda that the grinning bartender provides.

John set the empty glass down, but before he can swivel around on the seat, Sherlock presses him firmly down on the shoulder, and leans his head down to near John's ear. “Wait,” he says, and the air of it curls around John's ear and worms its way into his brain. John is frozen. Sherlock curls his fingers around John's forearm and slowly slides his hand up to where the sleeve is cuffed. What is Sherlock doing? He feels a slow warmth grow in his belly.

But then Sherlock releases him, and leans to pick up a fresh napkin, fastidiously wipes his fingers clean.

“What--” John chokes.

“Residue, John,” Sherlock interrupts. “Comparing the density of what I found on the victim's skin to yours just now, I estimate she sat on this stool for at least 3 hours. Given that the film on her covered slightly more than half her face, she had to have been turned slightly,” here, he grabs John by the shoulder and knees, cocking him 20 degrees to the right, “in this direction. From which we may deduce the killer sat in this stool, here.” He indicates with a dramatic flourish.

“That's bloody _sensational_!” John says, utterly impressed.

Sherlock pauses in his pacing and comes back to stand at John's shoulder. “Do you know you do that out loud?” he queries softly.

“Oh,” John stammers. “Sorry. I'll stop.”

“No. No,” Sherlock seems to consider. “It's... fine.”


	13. The Disco Den

Sherlock and John come back to the club around ten o'clock that evening. They seat themselves on the stools they'd noted earlier in the day, John on that of the victim with Sherlock to his right. (Sherlock unconcernedly has pointed the fog machine in another direction, to keep oil off his clothes.) Sherlock looks absolutely stunning in a sharply cut, closely fitted black suit. The aubergine silk shirt under it has several buttons left undone. He seems very natural and at ease in the thumping bass of the dance music, pearly skin of his throat glowing in the flashing, restless lights of the Disco Den.

John is wearing his new suit, too, and had felt quite natty and unusually sharp when they left the flat. The deep chocolate brown of it flatters him, highlighting the gold in his hair. His blue shirt matches his eyes, making them brighter and less tired. And although he isn't exposing as much skin as Sherlock, or showing off as much of his figure via skin-tight clothes, he still thinks he'd cleaned up quite nicely.

Then Stacey strolls by. John and Sherlock rise to greet him, but John can't hear, even without the music, because the conversation is so _high up_. Stacey settles on Sherlock's other side, seeming to exclude John, which leaves him frustrated and out of sorts. Stacey has his gray suit on, and looks both imposing and exotic. Patrons keep coming over to talk to him, but he turns them away in favor of keeping Sherlock's attention.

Next to the other two men, John feels like a tiny, drab, brown thing. A mushroom. Or a sparrow next to peacocks. He has a childish urge to stretch out his wings. The suit would compliment them as well, and it would increase his stature enough to _play with the big boys_. Height, tattoos and a dangerous edge can't compare to _wings_ , for god's sake! He glares at his drink and resists the urge.

Sherlock and Stacey are still talking. Flirting, rather, John thinks somewhat combatively. He notices the second shift bartender show up on the floor and waves her over. She busies herself in his general direction and arrives a couple minutes later. Her eyes flick to Sherlock, then her boss, who nods, but they otherwise ignore her.

"Hey, love," she smacks through her gum. He gives her his most winning, Three Continents Watson smile. She blinks then grins, leans on the counter and settles in for a flirt. "What can I do for you?" she asks in a suggestive voice. She's a pretty woman, perhaps 10 years younger than John, with big dark eyes and long dreadlocked hair. Silver and bead bracelets clink and clank every time she moves her arms.

"Hello," John smiles. "This is fast service, then. I feel special." The flirt is turned up. The woman grins back. This is her job, and it helps with the tips.

"That's it," she confirms. "Just couldn't resist those baby blues. Plus, the boss is right there," she adds honestly, jerking her head to the side. John grimaces slightly.

"Yeah, I know. I'm John Watson, by the way. And you?"

"Mandy. Can I get you a drink?"

"How about a scotch and soda, and then I have a few questions for you."

She winks at him when she returns with the drink. "What are your questions, love?"

John pulls the print-out of the dead woman from his pocket. "This woman was killed near here on Saturday night," he begins without preamble. "We know she sat on this very stool for at least 3 hours before closing. We need information on who sat next to her in," and he tips his head towards Sherlock, "that seat. Did you serve her that night?"

Mandy takes the paper and smooths it out. "Oh, yeah! Oh my god. Murdered? She was such a witch. She had these long green talons, and was a miserly tipper. Then a dude came up and started buying, and their service got a lot better then, I can tell ya! But... Holy shit. She's _dead?_ "

"Yes. So we need your help. Can you describe her companion?" John smiles again, high-wattage puppy-dog, and Mandy relaxes a little.

"Hmmmm," Mandy thinks. Sherlock notices that John is interviewing a witness, and swings back to face him, listening for Mandy's response. She gives him a startled, appraising look (she'd only seen the back of his head before) and then a slow, seductive smile. Sherlock ignores it entirely, but John locks his jaw.

"He was shorter than you," she speaks to Sherlock now. "But taller than you," at John. "He had kind of shaggy hair. Dark. And little rectangle black glasses." She stares out at the throbbing dance floor, thinking. "I don't remember his clothes. Oh! Except his watch. One of those with the really oversized faces, you know? And wait. Maybe he had a goatee? I can't remember. Huh. I think he did. But she was on him like a limpet, though. Thick as thieves until we kicked them out." She shakes her head. "That's all I remember. He _killed_ her, you say?"

Mandy looks genuinely scared. "I served a murderer drinks on Saturday? Jesus. He didn't look crazy. He was a good tipper. Fucking hell." She looks up at her boss, who is leaning in on the conversation. Leaning on Sherlock's shoulder, that is. John wants to reach over and knock his hand away. Maybe he'll fall. John smirks a little at the image. "That's fucking scary." Mandy concludes.

Fucking scarier if she knew _how_ he killed her, John thinks, but doesn't elaborate. Stacey assures his employee that security is being stepped up, and she'd be walked to her car each night until the killer is caught.

Stacey bends to say something to Sherlock, who nods his head _Yes_ , and then strides off to manage his business. Mandy goes to serve an impatient backlog of customers, and Sherlock and John are left alone. John takes a sip of his drink. He wonders if Stacey has just asked Sherlock out, or set an assignation. He frowns.

"Bartenders are observant. I'm usually happy to have them as witnesses," Sherlock shouts over the music. "That was a good description, given the chaos of the environment and the number of days that have passed."

"What... did Mr. Stacey ask you just now?" That is positively _not_ what John had intended to say.

Sherlock gives him a mildly confused look. John isn't sure whether or not the confusion is manufactured. "If we are going to stick around for a while. Drinks on the house, he said."

"Oh." John is a little embarrassed at the relief he feels. "Why are we going to stick around, then?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Stakeout, John. We've got to find the suspect. We'll just come here in the evenings until he shows up. It's our best lead. I expect him to be alone. There's no point in the wet work partner hanging around during the victim selection phase. He probably calls him or her in once he's got someone chosen and is ready to leave. So. We wait and watch."

Oh. God. John isn't sure how long he can stand the crushing wall of dance beats, flashing lights and writhing bodies. He hopes they don't have to do it for too long.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock impatiently pushes John's glass against his lips and tilts it up. "Drink up. Let's go dance."

"You've got to be kidding," John chokes, scotch dribbling around the corners of his mouth. "I don't dance."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "You will now. We have to blend in." He snatches the glass out of John's hand, skids it down the bar towards Mandy, and pulls John off his stool. "Come on." He crowds John back the few meters to the dance floor, and pulls him into the buffeting crowd of flailing dancers.

The lights help, John thinks. In the dark, it's almost hypnotic the way a skittering light will glance across you, then move on to another person. It preserves anonymity, makes it safe to let loose. John lets his eyes sink closed and begins to sway. The specific piece of music is unimportant. The thudding bass invades his veins and informs his movement, sharp sounding synthesizer twitching his fingers and elbows. A woman is singing in an an obnoxious autotuned voice, but he filters that out. _This isn't so bad._

Several songs pass by, and John opens his eyes to check on Sherlock. His movements slow and eventually still. Sherlock... is... amazing. His head is loose on his neck, swaying snakelike with the rest of his body. His bones have evidently melted, he moves like a ribbon in a breeze, or seaweed in a surf of sound. His arms trace the rhythm, his hips punctuate the beat, his feet glide in circles and wiggles that keep him in place in spite of the swelling crowd. If his wounded side is bothering him, it certainly doesn't show. The bandage on his hand glows blue.

His eyes are open, and he's staring at John. There is no color there except for the lights, green and red and blue. Flashes of white. Colors seep across the skin of his face, and render him alien, an impression reinforced by his boneless dance. He gives John a tiny smirk, reaches out and grabs him by the back of the neck, reels him in. "Don't stop, John," he says into his hair, oscillating in front of him, brushing just against the open edges of his suit coat. "Cover, remember?" His hand is very hot against John's skin.

"Ungh. Gah. Hmph." John gurgles. "Right. I need another drink. You?"

Sherlock gives him a lambent stare, and slowly shakes his head. John beats a hasty retreat.

When he turns back around, fresh scotch in hand, he just leans against the bar for a moment and enjoys Sherlock dancing. He's obviously quite at home on the heaving tide of the floor, and dances as if he were born to it, with a seductive, almost indifferent, sensuality. John notices that whenever someone approaches him, male or female, and begins dancing in his space, he turns a fraction, excluding them from his world. Beautiful buggers, too. Stunning women in skimpy dresses and gorgeous men in stylish, clinging clothing. John catches his breath. _But he was dancing with_ me _. He was watching_ me _._

Then there's a small flurry near Sherlock, and Stacey comes sailing through, 25cm taller than anyone around him. The crowd breaks, waves and regathers. Stacey dances with practiced ease, nodding and smiling at everyone around him. But Sherlock is his destination, and when he arrives, Sherlock tips his head back and gives him a slow smile, including him in the dance. _That's his fake smile_ , John thinks vindictively. But he isn't entirely certain of that, and he throws back the rest of the scotch, gagging a little.

 _It's fine_ , he thinks. _I'll just look for the suspect, then. I'll do the job we actually came here to do. Instead of wasting time flirting and dancing. Why do I care who he flirts with? I'm interested in women_. But that thought feels frail and fabricated, and the soft, hourglass-shaped figures shimmying in revealing dresses are doing nothing for him.

The drink warms his belly and fizzes gently in his veins as he pushes his way through the crowd, looking at faces along the way. John is at more of a disadvantage then Sherlock, in this situation, he realizes. Because of his height, he can only see the faces closest to him, and is otherwise blocked by shoulders and chests. A _very_ tall woman staggers into him, leans heavily on his shoulder for a moment before regaining her balance. Cantaloupe-sized breasts are laid out, wobbling, at eye-level for a long minute before she pushes away and moves on. John realizes he's uninspired, and would rather dwell on an unbuttoned shirt straining over a lean chest and a long, gleaming neck. Shit. What does that mean? He takes out the jealousy he's been feeling all day... but then shoves it back without too much examination. Now is surely not the time.

After a couple circuits of the floor, he gives up on his hunt. It's surprising how few men are wearing glasses. It's been easy to look for a wristwatch, in the crowd of shoulders, but although he's seen several with bright bands and oversized and gaudy faces, none are attached to a person like Mandy described. He makes his way back to the bar. He's lost Sherlock, but it's easy enough to pick out Stacey in the crowd. John pushes his way through the dancers, thinking he'll tell Sherlock maybe it's time to go. Or take a break, or something.

Sherlock and Stacey are still dancing, but whereas Stacey's body is facing his partner full on, Sherlock seems distracted and remote. He hasn't quite excluded his partner, but he's flickering his gaze through the crowd, looking. _For me?_ John wonders. _Or the suspect?_ John crests the circle the two tall men have claimed as their space, and Sherlock sees him. His face remains remote, but he reaches out a long arm and pulls John in, until his lips are close to his ear. He continues to sway, perforce John must sway as well, to keep from breaking the connection.

"Where did you go?" Sherlock asks, not shouting, mouth pressed completely against the shell of John's ear.

Humid, warm breath curls deep in his ear; vibrations from Sherlock's words seem to render it more open, vulnerable.

Without _any_ warning, John's knees turn to water, and a deep shudder runs through his body.

He reaches out reflexively and grabs at Sherlock's slim hips for balance, lost, just for a fraction of a second, in a wave of sensation almost as intense as an orgasm. He is half-hard and rising, and his body is on fire. Oh _fuck._ His _ears_.

"What?" John gasps.

The next song is slower, and Sherlock pulls John closer, nuzzles his head to his ear, and repeats the question. John lifts his hands to Sherlock's shoulders and pulls down on his neck, so he can return the favor. "Looking for the killer," he replies, like Sherlock did, in an intimate tone, lips to flesh. "Don't see him yet."

Sherlock nods and looks around the room for a minute. John turns to look, too, but Sherlock keeps his hold on his hips and pulls him back in. He notices with satisfaction that Stacey has disappeared, and then his world narrows to glowing, slumberous eyes. Sherlock directs their bodies to the music, but like the others on the dance floor, their feet have stilled. Sherlock lowers his head again. "We'll give it half an hour, and then look again."

The are standing like lovers, Sherlock guiding John with a hand at his hip and one along the side of head, holding him quiescent for conversation. John's still got his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. And then, instead of moving his head away, Sherlock... bites his ear.

John jumps

and moans

and paints himself against Sherlock, completely hard; and it's lava singing in his veins.

Sherlock nibbles, and licks, and tugs, and _breathes_ in his ear until John is nearly shaking with desire, breathless and bewildered, and utterly slack and malleable in Sherlock's hands. _This_ is the hair trigger of John's ears. He can feel the hard column of Sherlock's erection pushing against his belly, and his fingers are curved into the flesh of John's arse and tangling in his hair.

Sherlock pulls John's head back as he slicks his lips along the curve of his jaw, scraping through stubble, and marking his journey with his teeth. When he reaches John's mouth, his eyes open, catching that dazed gaze; he strokes his thumb over the swell of his Adam's apple, and comes in for a kiss. John's eyes fall closed again. _Oh. God._

Sherlock's lips feel as lavish as they look, and Sherlock wastes no time in parting them, licking at John, and then sucking his bottom lip. Hard. John's mouth falls open under the onslaught, dizzy and desperate, and Sherlock tilts his head, fusing them together, plunges in with his tongue and basically plants his flag.

But John is a soldier. He's not giving that territory up without a fight, and so tangles his tongue with Sherlock's, seeking dominance, tracing it back into Sherlock's mouth for his own exploration. He feels Sherlock shudder under his hands... and still they are dancing.

The aggressive push and pull of the kiss slowly morphs into something more languid, harmonizing with the music, the sway of their hips. Sherlock is curled attentively over John, who has lifted to the balls of his feet, body arched against his partner. John holds Sherlock's head down to his own, fingers twisted gloriously in sweat-dampened hair, curved around the back of his skull. He pulls the Cupid's bow of Sherlock's upper lip into his mouth, slickly tasting it, scraping it with his teeth, feeling the faint line of stubble against the inside of his mouth. Sherlock grinds closer to him, panting.

And then they are bumped from behind, and John falls back to his heels, and so the crush of their mouths is broken. Their eyes open, and the gaze between the two of them is heated and urgent. John slides his hand around to Sherlock's cheek, and presses his thumb against the very corner of Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock turns his head, minutely, and _licks_ it.

_Oh. Christ._

John feels an insistent pressure against his shoulder blades, and has to stop himself from spreading out his wings. They feel as uncomfortably trapped and bound as his cock. He wants to explode them both out, and push Sherlock down, and climb on top of him and flap in victory. He wants their clothes to evaporate. He wants to mantle them in his wings. He couldn't care less about the people in the club.

John is having trouble staying vertical, and all his alarms are going off, and then through the fog he sees a shaggy dark head with rectangle glasses around Sherlock's shoulder, and has just enough rationality left to pull his thumb out of Sherlock's hot mouth and say, "Bloody fuck. That's him!"


	14. A Fall

Tonight he leaves the club alone, this man who might be a serial killer. John closes out the tab with Sherlock's card and meets him at the door. They follow the man at a distance. He _does_ have a goatee. And they'd seen the ridiculous watch before he'd picked up his coat from coat check. Sherlock is confident it's the man who left with Jazmine on Saturday.

Tonight all he does is get in one of the cabs lined up in front of the building. John and Sherlock hurry into the next one, instructing the driver to follow. They drive for perhaps fifteen minutes, each staring out their own window.

 _What just happened?_ John rages in his mind. His erection has subsided (tailing a serial killer may have that effect), but his body is still humming. He can feel the pressure of restrained wings at his back, and he itches. _itches_. for more. _What the hell was that?_ It was so far outside the range of experience of John Watson that he feels he should pull back into the hatchling persona. From the hatchling perspective, it was right and natural, and he believes it had been building up to this point since before he'd even hatched.

John Watson from Before is gasping in shock. And yet. And yet. It felt good. And he had _died_ , for fuck's sake. _DIED!_ Is it wrong to chase a good feeling? Compared to being dead? Is a pedestrian moral convention justified in keeping him lonely and colorless? Well. Good question.

Sherlock's fingers are tapping out a crazy code on this thigh, tracing the tweed pattern of his coat. He looks steadily ahead and John doesn't have any idea if he is thinking about the kiss. the _ear_. at all.

The cab ahead of them eventually stops at the drop-off of Harefield Hospital in South Kensington.

“Drive around the corner,” Sherlock commands in his deep voice. The cabbie does so.

“Harefield Hospital,” Sherlock considers, as they climb out. John again pays with Sherlock's card. “I had wondered if it would be involved. Especially as it's the closest hospital to Mayfair. Harefield has become very well known for its transplant center in the past ten years. People fly in from all over the world.” There is a strong gust of wind and Sherlock pulls his great coat closer around himself, flipping the collar up. John just stuffs his hands deep into the pockets of the shooting jacket Sherlock acquired for him and hunches his shoulders.

“Organs are in short supply,” Sherlock lectures quietly, as they peer around the corner. The goateed man is having a smoke under the awning. “Much more demand than supply. It's illegal to sell organs; they can only be donated, and that usually from fresh corpses or from family members. We're not quite as bad off as in the days of Burke and Hare, but the laws are crushing, so it's no surprise a black market is flourishing.”

“Burke and Hare?” John asks.

_Down the close and up the stair_

_In the house with Burke and Hare_

_Burke's the butcher, Hare's the thief,_

_Knox, the man who buys the beef._

Sherlock quotes in a resonant baritone.

Oh. Wait. John knows that one. Every medical student does. Knox taught anatomy at Edinburgh Medical College and needed bodies for his lessons. At that time, cadavers could only come from executed criminals... which didn't happen often enough for Knox. In 1827, he began to pay Burke and Hare to provide him with freshly cooling bodies. The public outcry when this was revealed was tremendous. Knox got off, but Burke was hanged, publicly dissected and bits were passed out to the crowd as mementos. His head is preserved today, noose marks still around the neck, and there is even a small book on display in Scotland made out of his skin. But what does that--

Their mark chooses that moment to toss his butt into the bushes and stroll through the double doors. Sherlock frowns thoughtfully, “Hmmmm. Ok, come on. You keep track ofwhere he goes while I get us through.”

He swans past the doors, straight through the lobby to the security desk. John is right behind, darting his eyes left and right. He sees the goateed man go to the elevator bank around the corner.

Sherlock leans confidingly close to the guard behind the desk. “We received a call about a patient upstairs,” he says softly, flashing Lestrade's warrant card. “Sister is worried an ex-lover may have planted some drugs in his room. We want to keep this very quiet: we'll just be in and out. Shouldn't bother you at all.” He waits a beat, but the dullard in the uniform just nods, so he swirls back to John.

“Where?” he murmurs.

“Elevators,” John replies, leading the way. “We'll be able to see what floor he stops on; the doors just closed a second ago.” They stand side-by-side in the little hallway, five elevator doors in front of them. Only one has a moving light: 12, 13, 14, 15, 16... and... stop. Top floor.

Sherlock immediately shoots out a long fingered hand and jabs at the _Up_ button. When they get in, he presses 15 th. John waits quietly. He's feeling the incongruous adrenaline-fueled calm that is familiar to him from battlefield surgery. _Now_ is the time: action to be decided in a split-second on infinitely layered arriving data. It's like his brain is bouncing on its toes, waiting. Sherlock catches his eye, and they share a short, intense grin.

 _NOW_.

The elevator dings, and Sherlock sweeps out first. It's past midnight so the floor is empty. He can see the nurses' station at the end of a hallway, but the door labeled “Stairs” is right there, so they're through and climbing before anyone's seen them. At the top, he leans quietly against the door for a second, listening. Then he eases it, carefully. _carefully!_ open, taking in as much of the view as he can. “I don't see anyone,” he whispers to John, who is pressed against the cold concrete walls next to him. “It's not a ward floor. Some offices. Roof access. Mechanics.”

They slip into the hallway. It is empty, dimly lit only with emergency lights; and truncated, with a “Emergency Exit/Roof Access” door just to their left. To the right, beyond the elevators are what appear to be doors to offices. Tense and alert, they creep along the wall. Sherlock's ears are almost twitching he's listening so hard. Behind one door voices can be heard murmuring and a tiny crack of light is visible.

Sherlock and John read the plaque: “Dr. G. Linley, Director, Transplant Services”. The murmur inside rises and falls, but they cannot hear anything specific. Sherlock inclines his head closer to the hinges. As he leans in, a button of his coat scrapes lightly across the door. The voices inside stop and they clearly hear, “What was that?”

Sherlock and John frantically back away, and John grabs the nearest doorknob, trying to turn it. Locked. They race back down the hall. They can hear the knob rustle behind them, and a masculine voice says, “I'll go check.”

John is first to the stairs, and quietly, without sacrificing speed, presses the latch. Nothing happens. He presses again. It does not yield. _Bugger!_ The stairs are fire exits, they _have_ to be accessible. But apparently this one can only be released from the stairwell side. Sherlock sees what is happening and whirls the few steps to the roof door, optimistically jamming an elevator button on the way. The elevator dings, but it will be too slow. The man is in the hallway now, staring down at the pair of them, aghast, body leaning, starting to run. “Stop!” he shouts.

Sherlock swings his hip against the bar of the roof door and he and John spill through. The heavy door closes slowly behind them, can't be pushed because of its pneumatic hinge, and John looks around for cover. He's got his knives ready for battle; but he looks for cover first. “Over there,” he says, fast and quiet, indicating a collection of power boxes, antennae, little maintenance buildings and another entrance. The smooth surface below them is marked as a helipad, and they race across it, diving for the cover of the large power box as they hear the door behind them open.

“Oi!” A voice calls. “I know you're here! I saw you!”

“I'll try this door,” John whispers, lisping a little to disguise the carrying sibilant of the _'s'_. “But I believe it will be locked. We can only hope that Romeo over there did something to keep the other one from latching. On my mark, you go that way,” John points Sherlock to the left. “I'll go right, and we can try to circle around, see if we can get back through. I don't want us to get cornered together.” He looks at his knives, and then tries to hand one to Sherlock. “See if you can take this?”

Sherlock looks intrigued, and plucks it out of John's hand. “Interesting,” he smiles. He bounces it lightly in his palm. “I wouldn't know how to use one. I won't need it.” He drops it in his pocket nonetheless, then rolls to his knees and peers around the side of the box. John checks as well. The man is looking in their direction, but doesn't see them in the dark.

John darts back to the next power box, staying in the deepest shadows. He is within a meter of the other door now, and the man hasn't yet seen him. Sherlock is calm and still where he is, waiting for John to direct him. _He'd make a good soldier_ , John thinks. John smears his hands along the dirty sides of the box and the rooftop, and then wipes them on his face, to cut down on the reflection of his skin. He ruffles the rest of it through his hair, although he knows it won't make any significant difference to the lighter parts. He keeps his head ducked and slinks low, breasting the door.

The man sees him as he tries to open it, shouting again, “Oi! Arsehole! What are you doing up here? I'll call security, I will. Get over here! I've got a gun!”

The door is indeed locked. John pivots low and dives for the base of a cell tower to the left. “Go!” he hisses to Sherlock, who launches himself to the right, running 10 quick steps to press himself, panting and grinning, behind the wall of exhaust ducts. There's the thunderous report of a gun, and gravel explodes behind him. Shit. A gun? These people were supposed to be all about knives. Surgical instruments. And now the man is shooting.

Sherlock checks cautiously around the corner again, looking for John. There he is, slipping through the shadows, low on the ground, barely visible behind a long shaft. It's not very good cover though, so Sherlock sets out to distract the shooter. He gets a couple pieces of gravel and shies them as far as he can, away from John. They land with a satisfying scuffling sound, and the man immediately turns in that direction.

Sherlock tries for the next block of cover while the man's back is to him. But his timing is off and he's seen. The gun cracks again and Sherlock startles, losing his momentum. He falls back and runs to the right some more, until he's lying in the shadow of a long row of ventilation housing. The man is running in his direction, swearing, “Bloody, buggering _fuck!_ Quit hiding, you colossal poofter, and fight like a _real_ man.”

Sherlock assumes this means goatee recognizes him and John from dancing at the club. However, he will not be taunted into stupid action by homophobic slurs. He retreats again, moving further away from the original access point. The best cover is on the far corner of this part of the roof. He hears the rattle of gravel again, from the opposite direction, and knows John has deliberately made noise to draw the man off. It doesn't work. Sherlock watches as the man twists to shoot haphazardly at the sound, then pivots back to Sherlock. _Where's bloody security? Surely some of the night nurses have noticed gunshots on the rooftop?_

The man is close, and Sherlock worms himself to the next box and then crouches, listening to the harsh breaths of the man.

He's enjoying the adrenaline, and wonders if John is, too. He looks out, and can see John creeping up behind the man, only meters away. Excellent. Sherlock pushes up and leaps over the air shafts, sprinting for the final power box, near the edge of the roof. He slides behind it... and keeps sliding. Oh, fuck. They've switched to pea gravel here, and the roof has begun sloping downwards, and it's dark. Sherlock's feet flounder in the loose substrate: he can't get purchase.

The gun fires again, but Sherlock isn't paying attention, because he's skidded out, hit the lip at the roof's edge, has bumped over it, and falls with a sickening swoop, barely catching himself with a shout and the tips of his fingers. His shoes scrabble at the eaves as he tries to solidify his grip on the small pipe he's clinging to. He looks down. It's a long, long way. _16 stories. Assuming three meters per floor, that's a total of 48 meters. A fall from a that height is 95-98% fatal. This does not look good._

There's the sound of a brief scuffle, the thud of a dropped body and then footsteps running towards him. “Sherlock!” John cries.

The flimsy aluminum of the pipe begins to bend and crumple. Sherlock is only holding on with his fingertips, and he hears a tinny squeal as the pipe pulls away from the building. A cascade of gravel pours over him; he can hear steps slithering down. John's horrified face appears over the edge of the roof, blurred through the filter of the dirt and rocks hitting his own.

“John--”

and then he is falling.

And John dives after him. Giant wings, black in the night, stretch for a split second, and then fold tightly against his back as he thrusts himself downward, reaching for Sherlock.

Sherlock flails desperately, trying to flatten himself out to make for maximum drag, but he's oriented head-down and can't right himself. He feels a touch on his leg, but it slips free. The wind is whistling in his ears, his hair is whipping into his eyeballs, and if he were not moving he would certainly vomit.

He manages to flip, and stares up, stretches his arms out. John reaches down again, wraps one hand, then two around an arm, and the great wings spread out, cup the air with a soft boom, and Sherlock is jerked so hard he thinks it might have dislocated his shoulder. He feels the bandage under his arm stretch and pop away from his skin. John beats his wings, great, mighty flaps, pushing against the air, trying to slow their fall.

It works.

They slow, although they're still falling. Sherlock swarms up John's arm until he's hanging from his neck. He reaches up with both legs and tangles them around John's. Part of it is fear, but his brain is working lightning fast. Must improve their aerodynamics through less wind resistance at this point. He'll be a weight that John can more easily manage the more he molds himself into John's center of gravity. The principal is the same as that of riding a motorcycle.

He holds on primarily with his legs, not wanting to interfere with the wings, and John feels he's secure enough to readjust his grip and wrap both arms tightly around his body. “Hold on,” he gasps.

“Obviously,” Sherlock replies cuttingly.

This surprises a laugh out of John. “Right. Unnecessary.”

They begin to angle, instead of plummeting down. Sherlock can feel John straining; sweat begins to slick down his face. His chest and shoulders flex and pull as he struggles with the weight of two grown men, in addition to discovering how to fly.

John aims for a tiny patch of lawn, and they hit the ground, stagger, and fall, John on top of Sherlock.

“Wings, John. Hide them,” Sherlock hisses. But he is laughing. Exhilarated and high. “That was amazing!” He gives John's neck a quick squeeze before flopping his arms wide to the squishy grass beneath him.

John retracts his wings, and his grin is incandescent. “Oh, god. I didn't think we'd make it. Are you alright?” He raises himself on his hands and looks down at Sherlock, who wiggles fractionally beneath him. His eyes are stormy in the shadows of the shrubbery, but the gleam of mischief in them is bright.

“I've never been better,” he says, low and reverberant. Their bodies are pressed together from the ribs down, and John can feel the resonance echo through his veins. Sherlock's legs are still tangled around his own, and the position is so primal....

John lowers his head without any more thinking, kissing Sherlock like there might be no tomorrow. Given the past hour, there might not have been a tomorrow. Sherlock responds by tightening his thighs around John, wrapping him immediately around the waist, pulling him closer, a growling sound of satisfaction spilling from him, _Mmmmm_.

John licks and bites his way into Sherlock's mouth, coaxes his tongue out to play (it doesn't take much effort) and twines around it and teases until it's where he wants it, fully extended into his own mouth. John begins to lave and suck. Sherlock bucks beneath him, little groan growing deeper. His hands slide down to John's arse, rocking him up against a growing erection.

_CRACK!_

They freeze for a second. “Gun!” John barks.

“Shall we?” Sherlock asks, pushing John off of him and propelling himself to his feet. “Run!” And they're off. They hear one more crack of the gun before they turn down another street, and then another. Sherlock waves down the first cab they see and they ride back to Baker Street.

“He was a terrible shot,” Sherlock pants.

John starts to say something, and then breaks down into breathless giggles. They are still laughing as they let themselves into the flat.


	15. Feedback Loop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have art! [BoringIsDull](http://boringisdull.tumblr.com/), bless her talented and generous heart, drew not one, but TWO Johns (with feather variations), which you can enjoy at the close of this chapter. Please be sure to stop by her blog and let her know how her pictures enhance this story.

John has to bandage Sherlock's side back up... it's begun bleeding again with all the dancing, the running, the falling.... The pounding crash landing in the grass. “But this is my favorite shirt,” he complains.

John is unimpressed. “Christ, Sherlock. You could have _died_ tonight. I think one shirt is pretty insignificant compared to that. Besides, you can probably get it cleaned.”

“It's my second shirt this week. Blood is hard to get out,” he replies darkly.

John just lifts his eyebrows at him and tosses the shirt on the table. “They got it out of your coat, didn't they? And sewed up the slash in it, too. Now sit.”

“Fine. But I want to see your wings,” Sherlock pouts.

“When I'm done,” he says firmly. There's not much to fix with the wound, just wipe away the blood and apply more butterfly bandages. He uses an extra long plaster over the lot, for protection and to keep seepage to a minimum. “Probably dancing didn't really help this much,” he says.

Dark lashes fan over bright eyes, then lift as Sherlock gives John a glimpse of silver and a coy look. “Worked out well for us, though, don't you think?”

John can feel a blush warming his face. “Ah,” is the best he can manage. He removes the somewhat ragged and dirty bandage from Sherlock's hand to check the stitches there. They are holding strong, and the wound is clean, so he covers it up with fresh gauze. “You're all set.”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock rises so suddenly he almost knocks John over. He takes one step forward, and crowds John back against the worktop. “I want to test something.”

“What?” John is breathless. Sherlock takes his chin gently between thumb and forefinger and turns his head to the side. He curls lazily down.

“This,” he breathes into John's ear.

John jerks, shocked by the sensation, and wheezes inelegantly. Sherlock draws back and smirks at him before closing in again and exhaling, long and silently, into his ear. John clutches his shoulders and shivers. “Oh. Fuck. Sherlock--” His voice has gone rough and broken, and he locks his knees against sudden weakness.

Sherlock slides his hand up until it covers John's mouth. “Shhh.” He tugs at John's earlobe with sharp teeth, sips it into his mouth and laves it with his tongue. John's eyes have rolled shut, and he's rippling his hips in Sherlock's general direction, although he's pressed too tightly against the worktop to have any room to maneuver.

Sherlock shifts his focus to the tender spot just behind John's ear, nuzzling first with his nose and then lightly swiping it with his tongue. He holds John's head still with his free hand, and mouths along the rim of his ear.

John groans, deep and low, behind Sherlock's palm. His lips part, and Sherlock feels the moist heat inside. He slips two fingers into John's mouth. “Shhh,” he whispers again, tasting the whorls of John's ear. John arches beneath him. Sherlock's fingers press down on his tongue: John is hot and addled. His tongue curls around the weight of fingers; and Sherlock nibbles the crinkled tip of his ear; and John is shuddering and sucking in air through his nose, thrusting ineffectually against Sherlock.

Sherlock pulls away, reclaims his fingers, and guides John's face back to his. John's eyes are black, nothing but blown pupils rimmed with the deepest indigo. His cheeks are flushed, lips red and wet and parted, breath coming fast. His limbs have gone pliant and heavy.

“God. _Look_ at you,” Sherlock rumbles. “You're gorgeous. I could get you off on this alone, do you think?” John whimpers a little, not yet able to speak coherently, but Sherlock isn't actually expecting an answer. He snakes his head forward and licks at John's wet lips. “How did I ever get you?”

It crosses John's mind to say something clever and witty, like _“Well, you hauled me up from the basement,”_ but the moment passes while he's still trying to catch his breath.

Sherlock tugs him towards the living room. “Come here. I want to see your wings.”

John kind of falls forward first, then gets a slight grip on himself. He straightens, even though he feels like jelly. Sherlock tugs him in front of the fireplace, then surprisingly shoves their two chairs against the wall and pushes the coffee table up to the sofa, creating a large open space. He grabs a blanket off the sofa and flips it onto the floor. He positions John in the center and kneels to flick the fire on.

“Take off your shirt,” he says, still crouched by the fire. John doesn't hesitate, but pulls off the suit coat and tosses it back onto the sofa. Then he begins to unbutton his shirt. His tongue is caught between his lips, and his enraptured gaze is fixed on Sherlock.

Firelight renders his skin golden, and Sherlock rises, stepping closer to scratch his fingers lightly across John's chest, ruffling crisp hair in their wake. Dusky nipples harden, cast tiny flickering shadows from the fire.

“Fuck, John,” Sherlock falters. He just wants to _eat him whole_. He'll bypass the fucking in favor of devouring this amazing man, somehow folding him into Sherlock's very skin and bones.

And then John snaps his wings into being. He immediately spreads them out, taking the full space that Sherlock cleared. Sherlock murmurs in satisfaction, “Amazing. So beautiful.” Lust momentarily sidelined, he ducks around John, who obligingly pulls in one wing to make room for him to pass.

Sherlock stands behind him, taking in the full effect of his silhouette against firelight. “This is so impossible,” he muses. John stands still, and lets Sherlock circle him. He hasn't touched him yet, but John is being made very aware of his admiration and approval. At last, Sherlock steps closer and gently places both hands on the _propatagium_ (the cartilaginous tissue stretching between the shoulder and elbow that makes up the leading edge of his wings).

John sucks in a breath. _Right. Wings_. Right up there with ears. He can feel the light touch ricochet and amplify from the scapulars to the very furthest primary and back again. His wings are subtly burning and when Sherlock cards his fingers through the secondary coverts, digging through barbs and shafts to the skin and bones underneath; the waves of heat ripple in an escalating feedback loop between his wings and his cock. Both jerk and strain. John's head falls back with a sobbing gasp.

“You like this too?” Sherlock posits. Everything is an experiment. Always gathering data. “You like it hard?” He works his hands through barred gray primary coverts this time, boldly shifting, sifting, ruffling feathers to pull against the grain and then straighten them again.

“Fuck,” John groans eloquently. “You're killing me.”

“Not yet,” Sherlock says. Then he presses against John's displayed wings and actually mouths along the propatagium. His fingers tighten on the carpel joint and stretch it out, and John can feel hot breath filter through his feathers to the sensitive skin underneath. He hisses and flinches and rattles his wings, shaking Sherlock off.

“Too much?” Sherlock asks, suddenly sounding uncertain. Sherlock, of course, has never before had an opportunity to think about wings in a sexual way, and has no experience with it. Actually, before John, he's never even _handled_ a bird wing outside dissecting one in a laboratory.

“God, no,” John pants. “Just. I want to touch you, too.” He pulls his wings close and turns around, placing his hands on Sherlock's chest. He stands still for a moment, hands warm over Sherlock's heart. He indulgently stretches his left wing out. Slowly, so slowly. And lifts it high, feathers fluffed and standing out, before he pulls it back in. He does the same with his right, and then smiles at Sherlock's entranced face. “It feels good,” he explains and then rolls his neck. He's warmed up now, muscles loose and ready. The hunger for sexual resolution pulses through him.

Sherlock reaches around his arms and drags his hands through the downy primary coverts that line the inner wing where it attaches to his body. John shivers and a wave-like motion of individually flared feathers travels through both wings, rustling audibly. Sherlock explores the muscle of John's trunk, tracing over the _latissimi dorsi_  beneath his wings; trailing up through soft down and then over the hard curve of the _trapezius_ muscles of his shoulders; then on to the deeply developed _pectoralis_ of his chest. Goosebumps flare in the wake of his hands.

John sighs, then pulls Sherlock's head down. “Kiss me,” he breathes, eyes closing already, and Sherlock does, mouth soft and gentle, letting John explore and control the kiss.

Now, John is not particularly comfortable with the realization that all his previous life's sexual orientation was only meant to be a guideline, and not a rigid rule. He still hasn't really touched Sherlock, and isn't quite sure how he's supposed to. But there's this: He's been given a second chance at life, and he'd be a fool not to enjoy it. And this? This is the most enjoyable part yet, he can easily admit to himself. Sherlock crowded close against him, focused only on him, long cool fingers wrapped firmly around his body, and he'd be an idiot to step back. He's not naïve... he knows the mechanics of sexual fulfillment in gay relationships. He's just never done it. It's a little nerve-wracking to contemplate.

John is a brave man. He will meet danger head on and with an intrinsic cocky recklessness that stems from joy rather than fear. So he chucks his uncertainty about _gay_ aside, and sticks his tongue in Sherlock's mouth. He wants to bring Sherlock to his knees, as was quite literally nearly done to him both in the club and in the kitchen.

He holds Sherlock's head down to his with a hand twisted in his curls, and with the other, pulls his hips closer, until he can feel Sherlock's erection hard against his belly. He rolls his hips and inhales Sherlock's sharply drawn breath. They kiss for long minutes, dancing and sliding in each other's mouths, breaking apart for quick gulps of air before coming back together. Breath and teeth, lips and tongue, skin and noses and stubble. When John pulls back, Sherlock's face is flushed, his lips are swollen, his eyes half open and blown wide.

 _Mmmm._  Sherlock's voice breaks.

John holds his head with both hands, tilts it to the ceiling, and begins to work his way down the swan-like neck. Feathers rustle behind his ears; wings flap for balance as he rises to his toes for more control. He chews his way down the thick rope of the _sternocleidomastoid_  muscle that goes from ear to collarbone, sucking stinging bite marks along the way. Sherlock shudders against him and grinds forward. John smiles. This, at least, is no different from snogging a woman. Well. Ten times better, of course, because it's Sherlock, and John is connected to him in a way he likes to think is beyond simple imprinting. But practice still applies. He opens his jaw over the base of that spot and bites. He leaves his teeth there, deeply denting the flesh, and just breathes, tonguing the skin in his mouth.

Sherlock bucks and rolls under him, “Fuck. John. Oh. John. _Jesus_. Fuck.” John closes his eyes and begins to suck a bruise. Sherlock is tugging at his shoulders, shaking in his hands. John thrusts his thigh between Sherlock's legs, and turns his hip for him to rut against. The weight of Sherlock's head has fallen entirely back, is completely supported by John's hand. Sherlock _keens_.

“Right there, then?” John asks, amused and sultry and _throbbing_ with need. “That's the spot? Of _course_ it's your neck, you great bloody swan.” John briefly tightens his hold in Sherlock's curls smugly assessing the undone expression on his face. “Come down on the floor, you towering bastard, so I can reach you, yeah?” He enjoys his power, sure for the moment that _this_ is no remnant of imprinting; that so entirely overwhelming this man disproves the biological compulsion of the imprint.

They slide to their knees, graceless, and John's wings flare to balance them as they fall, and then angle back to accommodate how close he is now to the ground. The last remaining functional part of his brain makes sure he doesn't accidentally stick his primary feathers in the fire. Sherlock reaches for them again, but John pushes him back, arranges him until he is supine to John's satisfaction. He throws a leg over, and crawls up until they are face to face, carefully avoiding the bandage on his side. He leans back, seated with arched back over Sherlock's hips, and just does what _feels good_. He has faith that he can get the hang of this gay thing. Certainly his motivation is strong enough. He gyrates his hips, grinding their groins together, throws his head to the ceiling, and his wings describe great, gusting arcs through the air. Papers swish and fall off the desk, and the fire behind him dances and struggles. John feels ownership. He's going to _claim_ this man. Yes.

“God, I want you. I want to touch _all_ of you.” He slowly lays his body down on top of Sherlock, full length, pressing with all his weight, and stretches his wings back, far enough to cover Sherlock's distant toes with feathers, mantled around the two of them. He _stretches_ and rocks, luxuriating on the lean, squirming body beneath him; and then growls, aiming again for the neck, working it until Sherlock is sweaty and mewling, white skin blotched and bruised from John's possession.

John mutters a stream of nonsense whenever his mouth is free. “Yes. Look at you, you gorgeous thing. _listen_ to you. If they could bottle up that noise there wouldn't be a need for Spanish Fly, would there? Make it again.” And he holds Sherlock pinned to the floor by his hair, licking the love bites on his neck, meanders across both collarbones, utterly _relishes_ the arching and twisting of the body under him.

John has Sherlock trapped between his thighs, and Sherlock is bowing upwards so hard that John is entirely lifted for a moment. John slides his hands down Sherlock's arms, pulling them out of his feathers, and pins them by the wrists to the floor, letting his full weight rest on those deceptively delicate bones. He explores a nipple, and Sherlock jolts. “Ungh! Oh! _JohnJohnJohnJohn_!” He sighs and gasps and groans, thoroughly wrecked. John keeps his mouth busy on the tiny nub of flesh and makes a mental note. Yes. Nipples, too.

John cups them with his wings, blocking the firelight. It is almost dark, but he stares at the gleam of Sherlock's eyes. “ _Now_ ,” he commands, and begins to move with fierce intent, dragging his cock against Sherlock's, rolling his hips, countering each lift from Sherlock with a downward thrust of his own. They are shirtless, but both still wear trousers, and it adds, somehow. Sherlock's buckle gouges John's belly. Dress shoes scuff and scrape the hearth. John grunts with ferocious enjoyment, exhaling in time with stuttering hips. Sherlock's mouth is open, head tilted back, emitting long low moans, interspersed with _JohnJohnFuckJohnYes_. John lines their cocks up perfectly, slides heavily up and down the length of Sherlock, and then... at the peak.... He bites Sherlock's neck again, and everything explodes, they are spinning, the room is spinning,

the room has disappeared and they burn; together,

burning and gasping and shuddering.

And shaking.

And finally sighing; aftershock tremors trembling through sweaty bodies, endorphins rushing through overheated veins, muscles going lax and rubbery.

They drift back down. John still supports himself on a shaking arm, careful of the wound, but his head is dropped onto Sherlock's chest, cheek to sticky skin, listening to the gradual slowing of his heart. Sherlock pulls his wrists from John's loosened grasp, and smiles a bit at the down clinging to his palm and stuck in the bandage.

Sherlock wiggles a little, and then grabs hold of John's face. “My John,” he says, in that deep, dark, velvety voice. John undulates right back at him, and smiles. “My Sherlock,” he responds.

  



	16. Details

Sherlock is awake and gone from bed when John opens his eyes the next morning. He flings out an arm and feels the warm nest he had just left. He smiles, thinking about the night before. _That was ok_ , he thinks. _That was_ better _than ok_. He prods at his conscience. Nope, no guilt or regret. Only a warm feeling, an itchy memory that makes him want to verify last night's conclusions. He sits and stretches, popping the wings out carefully, so as not to accidentally rearrange the room or bend his feathers again.

When John comes out finally, dressed and ready for the day, Mycroft is there, sitting in the red armchair before the fire. Sherlock is sitting in front of him, face blank, so that means he must be upset.

“Good morning, Mycroft,” John says. He worries that calling the excessively formal man 'Mycroft' may be a gauche sort of liberty, but can't actually call him 'Mr. Holmes' without feeling even more socially inept. “Erm. I'm about to make some tea. Would you like...?”

Mycroft nods austerely back at him. “Good morning, Dr. Watson.” _Oops. Should have gone with 'Mr. Holmes'_. “Tea would be lovely, thank you. Three sugars, no milk.”

John comes back out several minutes later and distributes mugs. Mycroft and Sherlock are staring silently at one another, only minute twitches around their eyes indicating any communication. John is mystified. Sherlock eventually curls his lip and throws himself back into his chair, holding the mug carelessly. “Fine. I'll owe you,” he says sulkily.

Mycroft parodies a smile, and pulls a folder out of his briefcase. He turns to John. “I have taken the liberty,” he begins, pompous and stiff, “of reestablishing your identity. Your death has been erased from the files, and replaced with a description of an injury that had you invalided home. There will be a small pension associated with that, which should be beneficial in setting up a new life. Here are the identification and registration papers you should need. Legal documents, etc.”

He hands over a fat manila envelope. John opens it up and peers inside. Lots of legal papers and certificates, a driver's license, a passport. Mycroft had been very thorough. “Thank you,” John says, sincere and grateful. “I don't know how you managed it, but _thank you_.”

“British government,” Sherlock mutters sullenly, sotto voce. John casts him an inquiring look, but Sherlock is staring out the window.

“Six cases, Sherlock,” Mycroft says. “Whatever I ask. Consider yourself on call. Without complaining about how boring they might be.

“Now. I have had another intriguing but rather unfortunate series of images brought to my attention this morning.” Mycroft pulls out another folder and takes out several CCTV stills. John can see a blurry shot of what amounts to a dark lump with wide wings, silhouetted halfway down the height of Harefield Hospital. “You are not being careful or subtle about this Sherlock.” His chiding look shifts sideways to encompass John. “I don't know what's going to happen if word gets out. I can only cover up so much, you know. Not to mention: falling off a building, Sherlock? _Really?_ Are you losing your touch?”

His sarcasm is a cover for very real concern, however, and Sherlock squirms internally under his regard. However, he rigorously controls his body language, not to give anything away.

“It couldn't be helped,” he said stiffly.

“And snogging on the lawn afterwards?” Mycroft prods cuttingly, toying with the handle of his umbrella.

“None of your business!” Sherlock jumps up. “Is that all? Because I think we're done now.”

Mycroft rises, leisurely and unprovoked. “Be careful,” he says, looking from Sherlock to John. “If word of... _you_... gets out, I will not be able to help you.”

John nods, and clenches his fists around the blades of the knives he suddenly realizes he's manifested. Oops. Must have been feeling threatened. Mycroft watches as he flushes, and spins them away, clearing his throat. “Alright, then,” he says. Then, lamely, “Thank you.”

Sherlock begins to pace as soon as Mycroft has left. “We need to get back to the hospital,” he says. “Send a text to Lestrade saying we've found some of the people involved.” He stops and narrows his eyes. “Wait. Never mind. I don't want them underfoot yet. Let's go there first and see what we can unearth.” He pauses, flicking his chin with the side of a finger for a minute before whirling around and gliding up to John, his face much closer than personal space allows. “John,” he says, like he's having a revelation. “You're a _doctor_.”

“Yes. Yes, I am. What about it, then?” John holds himself tall and aggressive, not backing down before Sherlock's height and intensity. His shoulders are back and his chin up. Sherlock's eyes soften almost imperceptibly.

“It's how you can get in to see Dr. Linley. The name on the door last night,” he elaborates impatiently, when John looks momentarily blank.

“I remember,” he says, nettled. “But... you want me to interview with him or something?”

“Precisely,” Sherlock looks pleased that his hatchling is so quick on the uptake. “Arrange an appointment to discuss possible job opportunities, or some such.” He paws through the papers Mycroft has delivered, tossing the stills of a dark blob with wings and four feet to the floor with artistic insouciance. Finally, he comes up with a Curriculum Vitae, and scans it over. “You're a surgeon specializing in abdominals, so that's perfect.” He looks up and eyes John sharply. “You _do_ remember enough to carry on a coherent interview?”

John scoffs at him. “Yes, Sherlock. I've been doing it for over 15 years, after all.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Well. _Some_ could say you're only a week old. Better to ask....” He shoves the CV into John's hands and says impatiently, “Well? Call!”

John does. He manages to schedule an appointment with the director for 5:30 that afternoon.

  
  


Lestrade stops by several hours later. “Sherlock,” he greets, leaning in the door. “John, good to see you.”

John and Sherlock return the greeting, and Lestrade is invited inside for tea. Sherlock gives him the rundown on what he's observed from the corpse in the morgue.

“The bruising indicates quite clearly that there were at least two people present during the murder. One was probably a man, close to my size, perhaps, with hands slightly smaller. I'm guessing about 175 centimeters, going from the span.” Deducing the height could be bollocks, John thinks. Sherlock believes it's 175cm because they found and followed the man last night and _saw_ how tall he was. But John holds his tongue. “He was the lure, and probably met his partner in the alleyway later. The partner did the knife-work, and was probably closer to John's height. Could be male or female, there's not enough data to theorize about it yet.”

Lestrade thumps his head with the heel of his hand, disgusted. “Jesus,” he huffs. “Why can't Anderson tease out information the way you can?”

It's a rhetorical question, but Sherlock answers anyway, “Because he's a vacuous idiot with nothing but dust motes between his ears, that's why. And an arse, to boot. Although, the latter is no excuse for his appalling investigative skills.”

“Certainly doesn't seem to affect _yours_ ,” John is fairly certain he hears Lestrade mutter under his breath. He quickly rolls in his lips, biting them hard to prevent a grin.

Sherlock ignores it and instead begins to lecture. “Organ transplants represent big money these days. Because of immunosuppressant therapy, it's become so successful that there's a severe shortage of donor organs. Do you remember the Alder Hey scandal in 1999?”

John nods. He'd been at Barts at the time, getting his license. All anyone talked about were the news reports about the children's hospital that had been harvesting from the bodies of _every child_ that died in the hospital, storing them in containers for later transplants and study. Organs, whole fetuses, body parts, it was ghastly and heartbreaking. The doctor deemed responsible had escaped unscathed, for the most part, only being banned from practicing medicine in the UK. Over a thousand unidentified fetuses had been buried that year.

“After that, the Tissue Act of 2004 explicitly prohibited the sale of human organs,” Sherlock continues. “Which means that the black market exploded. Medical tourism alleviates some of the demand. A very few countries, such as Iran, legally allow the sale of a redundant organ to settle debts, etc. But not here. The wait lists are long, and many people die while they wait. So it follows that: ...money talks. Kidneys can go for as much as [£](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pound_sign)90,000, most of which is pure profit to the broker or doctor who's able to provide it. The woman we found on Sunday could have generated well over [£](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pound_sign)300,000 worth of illegal organs.”

He bounces on his toes, eyes alight. “I've got to do some research. Lestrade, have your monkeys look up financial records and transplant histories for Hereford Hospital.”

“Hereford?” Lestrade asks. “What? Why Hereford?”

Sherlock grimaces at his obtuseness. “Because it's the busiest and most well-respected transplant center in the UK. Also, it's within a 10 minute ride from where the bodies were found. Transplants have a better chance of success the less time the organs are kept on ice. It is the logical place to start.”

John waits for Sherlock to mention the chase last night, and the late night meeting in the Director's office, but it is not brought up. His eyes flash briefly to John's, as if to warn him to stay mute. John immediately affects an innocent expression and looks out the window.

“Get number of donors, patients on the wait list, surgeries completed, financial transactions of personnel. Surely I don't have to tell you how to do your job?” Sherlock's sarcasm is cutting.

“No. No, you don't,” Lestrade answers in his gravelly voice. “I'll get on that. And _you_...” he glares at Sherlock. “Don't do _anything_ without letting me know first. No going off on your own!”

Sherlock looks blameless. “Of course not.” And with that, he turns his shoulder and flings himself down at the desk, opening the laptop. It is a clear dismissal.

John spends the rest of the afternoon wandering around, drinking tea, looking out the window and brushing up on the details of organ transplant surgery. He feels nervous at the thought of an interview. He clinks his thumbnail against the side of his mug as he looks down at the street below.

“You shouldn't worry about it, John,” Sherlock says suddenly, looking up from where he's been hunched for hours. “It's not like you're actually trying to get a job. You're just gathering data.”

John turns with a smile. “Do you read minds, then?”

He lets his gaze linger on the man at the desk. Sherlock is slouched in his chair, still wearing pajamas, wrapped in a royal blue dressing gown. He looks rumpled and vaguely delicious. His long, long legs are cast out to the side, slim pale feet extending them by half again, it seems. His hair is a wild thing with a life of it's own. He's been tugging on it frequently during his research. John feels a similar urge, but checks it. They have neither of them mentioned last night, and John isn't sure why that is. But he's not going to make the first move. No longer caught in the heat of the moment, he doesn't want to set himself up for rejection or humiliation.

“It takes no real effort to read _yours_ , John,” Sherlock replies. He stands, suddenly. “I'm going to get dressed. I need to go to the bank before it closes. I have to check out some transaction records. John, you'd better get ready, too.”

“Let me check over your wounds first, Sherlock,” John suggests. He _might_ have an ulterior motive. He's been longing to lay his hands again on rangy muscles and endless lucent skin. Even better, it might get _something_ started up. But Sherlock just huffs impatiently at him. “No, John. They're fine. It only been 15 hours.” He stalks off towards the shower, and that's the last John hears of that. He sits dolefully down in his chair.

  
  


Before they go their separate ways Sherlock says, “Be careful, John. Remember, this is just to mine for data.”

“Ta,” John retorts, wounded. “I can take care of myself, yeah? I'll call you when I'm done.” Before he steps through the door, though, Sherlock sweeps an arm around him from behind and grabs his chin, pulling him backwards until he's sculpted to Sherlock's front. He wraps his free hand around John's hip, pinning him close.

“Oi!” John is startled. Not enough to draw his knives. He's still very aware who's holding him. “Sherlock--”

“Hush,” says Sherlock. “I'm just saying goodbye.” Hitching John tighter against him, Sherlock exerts enough upward force on his chin to drag him to his toes, head strained back against the narrow shoulder behind him. John grabs his wrists but doesn't try to move them. He can feel Sherlock's fleeting smile against the skin of his cheek. And then, “Goodbye, John,” Sherlock whispers into his ear. He gives the lobe a quick, sharp bite. John doesn't feel an erection behind him, but _he_ is certainly becoming heated and heavy, pulled bowstring taut against Sherlock.

“Erm,” he chokes. Sherlock puffs a laugh that has him shivering, and his lips just graze John's ear.

“Come straight home, won't you?” And then Sherlock shoves him out of the door to Baker St. and shuts it smartly after him.


	17. Captured

John steps out of the same elevator he and Sherlock were in last night. The hallway on the 16th floor is still empty, but doors are open and he can hear voices. He feels confident and efficient in his sleek new suit, even if it does still smell of second-hand smoke and sweat from the club: It still _looks_ good. It's not like he's actually seeking a job. He walks down to the door marked Director of Transplant Services. It is closed, and he gives it a brisk knock.

“Come,” calls a woman's high voice. John is startled and looks at the door tag again. Oh. G. Linley. Not sex specific. He had leapt to a conclusion. He opens the door to a large corner office. The windows of both exterior walls are floor to ceiling, with a foggy, grayed view of the woods reserve beyond some smaller buildings. The furniture is ostentatious mahogany, and the books along the shelves do not look well used. John sees all this at a glance and quickly approaches the woman seated behind the desk.

She stands to shake his hand briskly across the surface. “Dr. John Watson?”

She is about his height, with a stout figure and thick fingers on broad hands that do not look like a surgeon's should. Her hair is brittle and overbrushed, a frayed bleached blond, but her suit is expensive and she wears a lot of heavy looking jewelry.

She gives him a piercing look, but does not smile. “I'm Dr. Georgia Linley. Have a seat,” she orders.

John's tentative smile dies on his lips. Ok. So this is how it's going to be.

She pulls the fax of his CV in front of her. “It says here you're recently back from serving with the RAMC,” she begins.

“Yes,” John replies.

“Kept your skills sharp over there, did you?”

“I did a lot of trauma surgery,” he agrees. “Not only abdominal, of course. You can't specialize in a war zone.” He closes his jaw with a click, coming to the viscerally-felt conclusion that he does not want to discuss Afghanistan with this unappealing woman.

She keeps her flat, unnerving gaze on him, not blinking. “Of course not,” she says. He has the impression she's not really engaged. She types something onto her keyboard without looking. “We've become very busy lately,” she says. “We don't have enough surgeons to accommodate our new renown. We have patients on the wait list who will be flying here from all over the world.”

“Yes,” John says into the pause. “I did some research--”

The door behind him opens, and he flinches around, just stopping himself from twisting forth his knives. A familiar face pokes around the door. It is Goatee from the club. His gaze skates past John's tense form without recognition. “Coffee, Doctor?” He eels through the door, both hands holding white mugs with the hospital name in blue. She looks back, expressionless. “Please. Dr. Watson will have some as well, won't you?”

John spreads his hands out in the universal gesture for _whatever you say_ , keeping affable although his tension is ratcheting up logarithmically.

Goatee, today wearing a white lab coat, passes him to place a mug very precisely on the desk coaster in front of Dr. Linley. Then he turns and is extending the mug out to John when

suddenly he has a lapful of scalding coffee

and as he leans forward in an instinctive defensive gesture, the goateed man falls on him, gravity and bodyweight crushing him into a bent, awkward position over his own knees.

John's knives are out in an instant, and he jabs upwards at the body covering his own. His head is down, and all he can see is his lap, but he feels the knife score, slice through skin and muscle and skitter across bone. The ribs, then, or perhaps an arm. There's a muffled grunt. John twists, sinks and slithers to the side, but the hands grabbing him aren't holding him the right way

they

are

sticking him in the shoulder with a needle.

John uses his opponent's distraction to thrust away again, and knocks the man to the floor. He hears Dr. Linley snap something about _where did the fucking weapons come from_ , as he wrestles the man to the floor. He's not a trained fighter, this man, and John rolls on top of him soon enough. There's blood soaking the lab coat, and the man is cursing and gasping. He is easy to subdue. John leans forward, straddling him, holding his arms in a vicious crush above his head with one hand. The other has a blade at his throat.

But something is very wrong. There are two, then three of him. Six knives. The room begins to spin.

 _Fuck_ , John thinks. _Not good_. He feels his head begin to jerk around on his neck and the room fades into gray. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out, and in the next second … nothing. He falls onto the man beneath him, and the knives disappear.

 

John opens his eyes and slowly realizes that he is in a typical surgical operating theater. He's been in enough of them to feel certain of this conclusion, but he can't for the life of him imagine why he's here. He blinks slowly at the white walls and monitors, the trays of instruments, video scopes, lights and other apparatus of the cold, sterile room.

He stares dizzily for a while. It's off. Something about the angle is off. _Oh!_ He's lying down. On his stomach. Only one eye is focused, the other jammed into the bedding, which explains the odd lack of depth to the image. He lifts his head a little, and woozily drops it back almost immediately. _Right. Yeah._ He attempts to rub his eyes, and realizes his hands won't move. Hospital bed restraints. _Of course._ He clumsily tries to shake a foot: no freedom there, either. _Jesus_.

The events leading to this rather awkward situation begin to come to him. The hospital. Dr. Linley. The goateed man and the coffee. The stab of a needle. He thinks with some satisfaction that he must have caused that man considerable injury and it had to have hurt him like hell to drag a body in here and toss it on the bed. He can hear the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor speed up. _That's me_ , he thinks. _They've got me hooked up_. What the hell? He's shirtless, he realizes. He can feel the tacky adhesive of electrodes clustering on his chest and back. It's cold.

A door opens somewhere near his feet, and he struggles to twist his head around enough to see. He doesn't want anyone sneaking up to him. The door closes with a swish and two sets of feet walk to him, one moving briskly on tapping high heels and the other unevenly shuffling. The dynamic duo, then.

The woman comes into view. “So. You're awake.”

That's so obvious that John doesn't attempt to reply. Not that he would anyway. He contorts to watch her. She's like the fucking Leaning Tower of Pisa from this angle, and he squeezes his eyes shut to combat a wave of dizziness. “Wha' di' y' give me?” he slurs.

“M99.”

“What? Christ. An _elephant tranquilizer???_ ” He's surprised he's still breathing.

“A very low concentration,” Dr. Linley replies. “I had diprenorphine on hand, if I needed it.”

Ah. Great. An antidote for _just in case_. He wonders how long he's been out. Possibly hours.

“I've got something else for you, too,” she says tonelessly. “Then we're going to talk.”

The heart monitor reveals that his heart is jumping, and John hates that it's giving away his secrets. “What--” he begins, as she walks to his other side. He clumsily flips his head in the other direction, and sees that she's standing next to a drip pole. Christ, have they run an IV while he was unconscious? He begins to jerk and strain, trying to pull his hand away, but wide, sheepskin-padded leather prevents him from twisting them in the slightest. He twitches and curls his fingers, but it does nothing to dislodge the cannula from his hand. He strains for his knives, but they're unavailable, the constraints on his wrists keeping them in. Sherlock's experiment runs through his mind: _Limitations. Dammit._ Why couldn't the restraints be around his forearms instead?

Dr. Linley smirks and injects a solution into the port on the IV line.

“What is it?” he asks thickly.

“Nothing to hurt you,” she says. “I just want you in a more amenable frame of mind.”

John's heart thunders for another minute, and then very suddenly settles, slowing dramatically. The monitor reports the change to the world. It's a chemical thing. He knows what is happening: it's another sedative. Mixed with what, god knows, but he's calm now. He's fucking floating. He giggles, knows he shouldn't, giggles again and then can't stop.

He lays his heavy head back down and stares at the sideways woman next to him. She's looking at her watch, impatiently tapping her foot. A man comes up behind her, white lab coat liberally doused with browning blood on one side. Stained gauze is wrapped abundantly over his shirt around his ribs. John grins wider. “I did that,” he announces with satisfaction.

The bloody man snarls, but the woman holds him back. “Stay still, Bernie.” She sneers at him. “You fumbled. You _knew_ he was a soldier. Moron.”

She turns back to John. “Do you know what Trapanal is?”

“Yes, of course I do. I'm doctor after all, you know. It's a brand name for sodium thiopental, a barbituate used in anesthesia, euthanasia and even psychiatric treatments. I imagine you're using it on me as a truth serum. Even though it doesn't make someone actually tell the truth. Just... harder to think of a lie. Was there anything else in that injection? It's probably mixing with the etorphine that's already in my system, which would explain this intense sensation of vertigo--”

“So, Dr. Watson. Bernie here said he saw you and another man sneaking around last night. Who was it and what were you doing here?”


	18. Telling the Truth

John squints his eyes at the evil woman. This is a trick question, he knows. “No,” he begins uncertainly. “I know I'm not supposed to answer that. It'll give me away, and Sherlock wouldn't like to be exposed before he's--”

“Sherlock?”

“Sherlock Holmes. I'm helping him in the vivisection case. Hey! That's you. We figured that out last night. We followed Goatee over there back from the club. We were dancing first--” she cuts him off again. The screaming, horrified part in the back of John's brain is more relieved that he kept back how snogging with Sherlock had been unexpectedly wonderful, than it is distressed about spilling his guts.

He is in a strange, divided world. It is not that the drug is forcing him to tell the truth. It just makes his mouth run and his brain is so foggy he can't be bothered to filter, or sort through the information to see what should be twisted or held back.

“Why are you and Sherlock Holmes looking into these deaths? Are you the police?”

“No, although we work with them. Well, Sherlock does. He's the world's only consulting detective, and they come to him with the cases that they can't crack.”

“And you're his assistant?”

“Well. Since I hatched. It's only been a week. He's really amazing, though. Got a brain the size of a planetary superc-- cop – compmuter. That's right. Knows what you're going to say before you even say it. He'll probably--”

“Did you say _'hatched'?_ ”

“No. No I didn't,” John gives lying his best shot, but just can't stop the torrent of words. “He found my egg in the basement apartment and brought it upstairs. I've been out for a week, and we've been working on this case, and he really is fantastic--”

She actually puts her hand over his mouth. He quiets for a moment, and then thinks to bite her, but he is too slow and she pulls her hand away. The operating theater seems filled with clear jelly: the outlines are not crisp and sharp but jiggly, moving constantly, fracturing the light. John squeezes his eyes shut. This is wrong. He knows it's wrong. But that part of his brain is utterly sidelined.

“What do you know about this case?”

“What? We know it's you. That you're doing it to harvest organs to sell to wealthy people who then get the surgery done right here. We know that you knock the victims out with a combination of zolpidem and propofol and then perform vivisection to obtain the organs. We know that Bernie here pulls for your victims and that you're the one with the blade--”

The woman's face whitens as John speaks, and he feels intense satisfaction. Her expression twists into fury, and she grabs his jaw, digging her nails into the skin of his cheek as cruelly as she can, and turning his head too sharply, overclocking his neck. “Are the police coming?”

“Yes, of course they are,” John again attempts to lie. He can't keep it up for more than a few seconds. “No, Sherlock wanted to check out more records at the bank, and I came here to meet you and see what I could suss out--”

She crushes his mouth again to interrupt the stream of words. “Does anyone know you're here?”

John interprets this question as specifying the operation theater he is currently in. “No--”

Dr. Linley interrupts him again. “Good. Tell me how you got off the roof.”

“No, I'm not going to do that because then you'll know about my wings. Dammit. I didn't want to tell you that. I'm sure it isn't safe. And, of course, not true. Not true at all.”

“Tell me about your wings, Dr. Watson.” Her face is avaricious and cold at the same time, and John feels a deep jolt of fear, inaccessible, but evident.

“I can't. I can't tell you.” John shuts his eyes, as if they are a metaphor for his mouth.

She steps forward and squashes his head down on the mattress. She thumbs his lid up, forcing it open, and it pops away from the moist curvature of his eye with a tiny sucking sound. Sheet wrinkles poke at his eyeball, sharp and dry. She stoops until they are inches from one another. “Tell me.”

“They didn't exist before. In my life before, in Afghanistan. Only when I hatched. Then they were just there. I can _pull_ them whenever I want, just like my knives. Except I can't do the knives now because you're restraining my wrists. I didn't know if I could fly, when we were on the roof. But I had to risk it, because Sherlock would have died. I'd do anything to stop that. Anything. I _had_ to try!” She keeps his head viciously pushed down, his eyelid pulled tortuously back, until there is an air-filled gap between the fragile bit of skin and his eyeball, and the sheet corners have sucked all the moisture from it, scraping painfully against the dried cornea.

"Show me the wings.”

“No. No I can't. I mustn't. They're impossible anyway. You shouldn't see them. Only Sherlock can see them. Only Sherlock can touch them. And maybe we'll go to his house in the country and try flying again.

“You know, you can make this shit pour out of my mouth, but you can't make me take out my wings. You don't control my body.” John laughs shortly, and Dr. Linley pulls her hand off his head and then viciously returns it in a mighty _slap_. It hurts, but John keeps laughing. “You can make me talk, but I still control my body. That doesn't hurt much. I'm not scared of you. Much. Sherlock will come--”

The verbal diarrhea stops abruptly when Dr. Linley leans over to the defibrillator machine and snaps it on. A resonant hum fills the sudden quiet. “What--” John takes a deep breath. “What are you planning on doing? You can't hit me with that. You'll induce a fucking _heart attack_. Do you want to kill me? Christ.” The heart monitor begins blipping sharply again. Of course, caught like an animal in a trap, confined face down on a hospital bed, it is abundantly clear that they intend him no good.

And then John remembers that he is in a large, functioning hospital. Twenty-four hour operation. “ _HELP!_ ” he yells as loudly as he can. “Help! I'm being tortured--”

“Use his fucking shirt,” Linley says over him, and Bernie snatches up a bundle from the floor and crams it against his face, shoving part into his mouth.

“Shut up. Shut _up_ ,” Bernie mutters. “Goddamned freak.” He pushes more of the wadded up fabric into John's mouth, until he can only frantically suck in air through his nose, pulling his head back as far away as he can, torquing his neck, grunting behind the makeshift gag.

Linley returns, face blank and cruel. John stares at the paddles in her nasty thick-fingered hands. He thinks of Sherlock's fingers, lithe, and long, and proficient. Oh, god. He rolls his eyes back to her face.

“So, Dr. Watson. Show us your wings.”

He shakes his head.

She lunges forward, and presses the paddles to his skin, one under his left armpit, and the other on his back. John thrashes and arches, but can't dislodge her.

“Bernie! Clear!” And Bernie pushes the button.

The room goes white. John is barely aware of the whipping of his body through the crushing pain in his chest. His teeth clench on the shirt in his mouth. He can't breathe. Can't think. The heart monitor is shrieking and shrieking. Has a car dropped on him? Jesus. It is like being kicked by a horse. Repeatedly. Linley says something, but he can't see, can't hear, can't get back inside his own head; for how long, he doesn't know. His body rattles and echoes with the rapid, erratic, tachycardic thumps in his chest. His heart is frenetically flailing. Until it stops entirely.

They are trying to tug the stuff out of his mouth, and he knows he should let go in order to breathe, but can't unclench his jaw. _I'm having a_ fucking _heart attack,_ he thinks distantly, but somehow can't be arsed to care.

Linley snaps out an order, and the paddles are back. Oh, god. John tries to tense against it, but has absolutely no control over his body. This time he feels the current, sharp-edged like razor wire, sliding through his chest. That is his only sensation, razor-wire mining through his muscles and into his heart.

Everything stops.

And then starts again.

His mouth is clear. He pulls in a gasping breath, and another. Low moans are coming out, and his body trembles with aftershocks, shaking and icy cold with sweat.

Dr. Linley holds a paddle in front of his face. “Wings, Dr. Watson. Or next time I'll do this on your _head_.”

John closes his eyes, exhausted and defeated. He draws his wings out. They lay, lax and shaking like the rest of him, spilling sideways off his back, trailing to the floor. It is slightly warmer under the feathers, and John feels a fraction of relief.

Dr. Linley gasps. Bernie says, “What the _fuck???_ ”

But John is still trying to breathe, trying to control his heart, and just lies there.

“Bind them up,” Dr. Linley orders. And then his wings are being lifted slightly, and he figures it must be Bernie, wrapping them tightly where they joined his back, using long gauze ribbon. It doesn't feel good; the soft tertial coverts are pulled at the base, caught up in the gauze. His stomach jumps and heaves at foreign fingers in his feathers, bile rising sharp and vile up in his throat. John convulses at the sensation of hands on his wings, and begins to struggle. He beats his wings furiously from the carpel joint, and knocks Bernie back.

“Christ!” Bernie shouts.

“Restrain. Them. _Now._ Moron!” Linley hisses. Bernie pushes his way past the heavy wings and twists more gauze around the carpel joints, tying them together over his back. John jerks as secondary coverts are painfully crushed and broken, the tape mercilessly cutting through them to hold tight against the skin and muscle underneath.

John thinks, for a ridiculous, hallucinogenic moment, that he must look like a trussed turkey. But he can't speak, still, choking on air. His body feels like one great internal bruise. As if all his insides have been gouged out and then poured back in fractured, calcified pieces of individual pain.

Linley paces around him, heels clicking under her heavy, graceless tread. “Amazing,” she mutters. She brushes her hand against one of his painfully raised wings, and he shudders. He'd rather this evil woman grope at his cock than his wings. It would feel less intimate.

His breath begins to get some traction. He inhales.

She turns to glare at him. “If you try to shout, we'll just gag you again.” John remains still, trying to calculate his odds. She picks up a scalpel off a nearby tray, and he sucks in breath to scream. “Shut it!” She's moved so fast, the scalpel is already pressing into his neck. He can feel the sting, and the slithery warm trickle of blood. “Bernie, wrap his fucking mouth over.”

Bernie glares. The rough bandage over his side is bright red again, so the struggle with his wings must have knocked it awry. John is heartlessly glad. Unfortunately, Bernie is just plain heartless. He pulls John's head up by the longer hair on top, and works an entire roll of gauze into his mouth. The he takes out another and begins to wind it around and around his head. John is left with his mouth gaping wide, strangling on the giant wad of fabric, nose partly obscured as well. He has to concentrate on breathing, on staying calm, so he doesn't hyperventilate and die. _Fucking hell._ Of all the ways to die in a hospital, this is not one he'd ever imagined.

“You know what I specialize in, Dr. Watson?” Dr. Linley bends over a little, to look him full in the face. “Transplants. I'm very good at it. Very good. It has made me quite rich, yes, indeed. But you know what I've never transplanted before?” She pauses, as if the idiot woman thinks he can possibly answer. Or would want to. John doesn't even blink. “ _Human wings_ , that's what. If I can get £80,000 for one measly kidney, can you just imagine what I can get for you?” She trails the scalpel lightly down the long curve where wing meets back, not breaking the skin. “How do they attach?”

It's a direct question, and John is still pumped full of the sodium thiopental mixture. He shakes his head. He and Sherlock don't know. They haven't done x-rays with his wings present, yet. And now, he thinks, perhaps they never will. His mouth is dry. So dry. The gauze is sticking to his tongue, touching his tonsils, gluing to his uvula: wicking up every drop of moisture. Dr. Linley tosses the scalpel back on the tray and picks up a black Sharpie.

“Let's see if I can guess,” She says, and begins to draw cut lines along his spine, tickling and cool, sweeping down under a wing to trace along his ribs.


	19. Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you are my darlings. So sorry about the cliffie. Here, have this with a nice hot cup of tea:

Sherlock leaves the bank coolly pleased.  Dr. Georgia Linley has established numerous accounts in places ranging from Switzerland to the Cayman Islands. His meticulous digging has exposed that her wealth has grown to several million over the past year. This is the proof he needs to bring Lestrade to the hospital for an arrest. It is a good thing Ridley at the bank owes him such a huge favor. Chasing down the money trail has taken several hours.

He pulls out his phone. No texts, messages or missed calls. Where is John? Surely the _“interview”_ wouldn't have taken more than an hour at most? He's probably waiting at the flat. Sherlock flags down a taxi and climbs in, texting Lestrade as soon as he's settled in the seat.

The flat is empty. Sherlock easily perceives that no one's been here since they left hours earlier. A sick worry begins to pull at his stomach. His fingers fly across the screen of his mobile.

_John. Where are you? I have important information. Contact me immediately. -SH_

_Lestrade. Meet me at the flat instead. -SH_

Not five minutes later Lestrade bangs on the door downstairs. Sherlock throws on his coat and swathes his neck in his scarf as he takes the stairs three at a time to the foyer. “Lestrade.” he greets unceremoniously. He's not nervous, yet. Exactly. Just feeling very, _very_ efficient and motivated. “Get back in your car. We need to go to Hereford Hospital. I'll tell you on the way.” He herds Lestrade to the patrol car and folds himself into the passenger seat.

He explains the dramatic bloom in Dr. Linley's wealth to Lestrade as he weaves his way through the remnants of traffic. “So she's obviously both the broker and the surgeon. Must just give a tiny portion of the take to whomever the lure is... the man from the Viper's Pit.”

“Three million pounds.” Lestrade shakes his head, amazed and disgusted. “From five bodies. I'm surprised more people aren't doing it.”

“Well, it does take a specialized skill,” Sherlock comments. “But until the laws become a little more forgiving, the market will only grow. Too much money there for any self-respecting criminal _not_ to stick a finger in the pie.”

Lestrade stops at a light and looks around his own car suddenly, as if surprised. “Where is your... friend? Staying home for this one, please god?”

Sherlock frowns repressively at the DI. “He went to hospital several hours ago, to interview with Dr. Linley for a position as a surgeon.”

“ _What?_ ” Lestrade is perturbed to hear that a layman is poking his nose about in a serial killer case. “Why _on_ _earth_ did you let him do that? Has he any training? How does--”

“He's not an idiot, Lestrade. Well. Certainly less so than most of your team. He's an experienced doctor and soldier; give him a modicum of credit. He wasn't going to be doing any actual investigating. Just get a feel for the woman and the traffic through the center, how it's changed over the last year, that kind of thing.”

“I _told_ you not to go off on your own! That goes double for your mate! Jesus, Sherlock. Working with you is like wrangling a child.”

Sherlock tightens his jaw. He could argue this more effectively if he weren't worried that something untoward may have happened to John. Sherlock can feel fretful tugging under his breastbone, the thin line that has connected them since the moment John hatched. It is always there, a faint irritant that lessens in intensity the closer they are to one another. He doesn't know if John feels it, too. Hadn't mentioned it to him (although he should, just for scientific clarity). Assumes, perhaps, that it is part of imprinting. Although Sherlock's research hasn't thus far uncovered a theory to suggest that imprinting goes _both_ ways.

The pull exists, however, whether or not he can account for it with a reasonable scientific explanation, and he's feeling extremely agitated at the moment. He picks at the bandages around his hand, staring obliquely out of the window as South Kensington begins to drift by.

In the hospital, visiting hours are long over, the shift has turned, and the lobby is empty. Lestrade is talking to the same stupid security guard who was there earlier. Sherlock ignores them, and sweeps towards the elevator bank, pressing the button for floor 16.

Lestrade reaches him just as the doors slide open. “He says Dr. Linley hasn't yet checked out. He offered to page her, but I said no thanks.”

Sherlock nods, distracted. “What have you got, Lestrade? Pepper spray? Better get it ready.”

“Aw, fuck, Sherlock. What are you expecting? Should I call for backup?”

“Up to you,” he brushes off that worry. “Just better to be prepared.” He rubs at his chest, to soothe the anxious ache growing there, dense and overwhelming. The door dings and opens onto a now-familiar hallway. Sherlock ghosts down the hall, very careful not to make a single noise. Even the rustling of his coat has been subdued. His feet are silent on the gray carpet. Lestrade slinks next to him. They reach the office. Its door is wide open, there is no sound from inside. Sherlock leans his head around the jamb and sucks in a sharp breath. He moves quickly within.

“Jesus,” Lestrade breathes. Papers are strewn about the floor, a chair is knocked over, and spilled coffee intersects, like a disgusting Venn diagram, an alarming amount of blood on the carpet. “This can't be good.”

Sherlock shoots out a hand and slaps it over Lestrade's mouth. “Shut up!” he hisses. He pulls his hand back immediately, brushing it unconsciously against his coat. It crosses Lestrade's mind that this is the first time Sherlock has ever voluntarily touched him. Sherlock moves carefully around the perimeter of the room.

“I don't believe the blood is John's,” he says at last, very quietly. “See the pattern here, and the fallen mug.... Looks like he must have been handed the coffee before he realized anything was wrong. Clearly there was a struggle. John probably sliced his assailant and had him down on the carpet _here_ , you can see from the spread of blood. But then they subdued him.” He crouches and stares under the furniture. “Yes, an injection. There's the syringe under the desk. Better leave it for evidence.”

He pulls in a long breath through clenched teeth. “We'll follow the blood.” His brows knit. “It's several hours old, I believe, going from the rate of coagulation.”

There's another door in the office, also opened, and occasional splats of blood delineate the path they should follow. Sherlock moves swiftly, completely focused, down another hallway and to a stairwell. They enter with caution, but it is empty and echoing. Sherlock descends the stairs two at a time, on his toes to absorb the noise. He checks through the first door, floor 15. There! Another spatter, several meters down the hall. He is a bloodhound. He immediately follows.

The heavy double doors of Operation Theater 1506 are closed, and have no windows. Sherlock locks eyes with Lestrade, who drifts to the other side of the doors. He counts silently. _One. Two. Three._ And then they shoulder into the room together, crouching slightly, still silent.

Sherlock assesses the scene that meets his eyes with his emotions ruthlessly on hold for later. A woman in an expensive, yet still unflattering, pantsuit stands with surgical gloves and a scalpel, evidently directing the man next to her to maneuver the machine he's pushing over an exam table. The flunky is the man from the club, Sherlock sees at a glance. Goatee. Hair. Glasses. He is also the wounded one from upstairs, with a bloody slit in the side of his lab coat advertising where he was cut. Sherlock feels fleeting satisfaction before his gaze moves on.

And on the table. On the table is John. Sherlock's heart stutters, but he ignores it, refuses to let _sentiment_ interfere, just hoovers up data like he always does. The bed is the kind with restraints built in, probably brought up from the psych ward several floors below. John is shirtless, restrained face down, both hands and feet, and a broad band across his hips. His. His. Sherlock swallows hard. His wings are out, cartoonishly bound up in medical tape at both shoulder and elbow joints, so they rise straight above his back. There is a thin, dripping red line along his ribs, scoring a gentle curve (a sick smile) that encompasses the wing. An IV line runs from a pole into his hand.

John flops his head towards the door, and dazed eyes widen. It's the only part of his face that can move. The lower half is wrapped in gauze, and Sherlock can see that his jaw is distended, likely from additional gagging material. What Sherlock can see of his face is ashen, lightly coated in sweat. His hair is wet with it. There's an unnerving bluish tint, and Sherlock realizes that he badly needs air, isn't getting enough oxygen through all the shit wrapped around his head.

After the first shocked pause, wherein everyone in the room remains in a frozen tableau, Sherlock dives forward. The club man is closest, so Sherlock brings him down in a rushed tackle. He doesn't mess about with niceties or warning, just slams his fist as hard as he can right onto the wound. The man screams, high and thin, and staggers back, falling to a sitting position. Sherlock kicks him hard in the temple, using the gently pointed tip of his very expensive Italian shoes, and pole-axed, the man falls bonelessly sideways.

Lestrade stares, confused and uncomprehending, at John, but then tears his gaze away and rushes the woman, who drops the scalpel and begins to plead, voice soft and light. “Oh! Don't hurt me! I'm just doing what he made me--”

Sherlock tunes her out, flying instead to John. “John,” he says, voice so deep it's more of a vibration than it is audible. “John.” He doesn't know where to start. He unbuckles one wrist with shaking hands, and then begins to tear at the fabric wound around his head. He rips the cannula and tubing out of his hand, throwing them violently away, as he tugs at miles of tangled gauze.

John heaves and twists, manages to pull his one free arm under him, and pushes up. He's making it more difficult, with his frantic, jerking movements, but he's desperate to get out and free. Sherlock finds an end and begins to unwind, dodging the hand that keeps trying to grab onto his arm. “Just a minute, John,” he soothes, falling instinctively into his egg-croon voice, gentle and quiet. “Let me get this off you--”

“Bloody hell!” Lestrade shouts from behind them. Sherlock swings around again, and the woman has pulled a taser from the pocket of her lab coat. She has Lestrade's jacket clenched in her hand, and she pulls him forward, off his balance, while jabbing out with the taser. There's a crack and hiss, and Lestrade arcs to the floor and lies there.

She stalks Sherlock. He looks at her in amazement. This middle-aged _female_ , shorter and stouter than John, is thinking to defeat a room full of men. And will possibly succeed. He needs a moment to think. She's at John's feet. “Move away,” she demands. “Now. Or I'll shock him _again_.”

 _Again?_ Ah. Possibly that would account for the gray shade of John's skin. He sees the dangling paddles of the defibrillator at the head of the bed. She holds the taser against John's ankle, and Sherlock backs up a step, two steps. Lestrade moans from the floor nearby. Club man is still out cold. Sherlock looks around quickly for a weapon, but the instrument tray is on John's other side. She moves around the corner of the bed. “Move back,” she says again. “I want you to go into that door over there.”

Lestrade pulls himself to his knees and takes in the scene before him. He makes a low gurgling sound.

Sherlock locks eyes with John. He has the one free hand. His eyes widen almost imperceptibly and John nods.

The woman takes another step up the bed, now level with John's thighs, pressing the taser against his lower back. She smiles, dead and flat. “Into the closet with both of you. Now.”

Sherlock moves backwards again, a long step with lots of attendant movement, trying to thoroughly engross the woman's attention. John flexes his hand, and there's a flash as the operating light that had haloed him catches on the tilting flat of a blade. And then John jams it down as far as he can reach, catching on the woman's coat, and sinking rapidly into her flesh. As far as John can stretch himself, he pushes and then brutally twists the knife.

Linley screams, jerking back, and the stun gun falls clattering to the tile floor. Lestrade is on her in a moment, twisting her down and sitting across her back as blood pools on the floor at her side. She grunts and groans beneath him. “Jesus fuck,” he snarls, grabbing her arms and pulling them tightly back. He grabs his cuffs from his back pocket and snaps them on her, tightening them hard. The knife is still sticking out of her side, Lestrade has to angle his knee to keep from pressing it. And then, while he's maneuvering around it, it. it. Disappears. Gone.

Sherlock is back at John's side, muttering a stream of invective. “Give me the knife,” he says, and John pulls it from the woman (this is when Lestrade watches it disappear) and hands it to Sherlock, who absently wipes off the blood on the sheets at his hip. He very, _very_ carefully slides the blade along John's cheek, through the knots of bandaging, not against the skin, careful to leave a few layers so that he won't twitch and cut his hatchling. It is very sharp, this knife, and when Sherlock pulls, it carves through the gauze like cheese. Sherlock's long fingers dance as he pulls the rest away.

John's mouth is still stuffed, gagged with the sodden wad of bandaging that had been crammed in there some thirty minutes earlier. Sherlock fishes it out, throws it to the floor, and John sucks in great, heaving gasps of air that leave him choking and coughing, dry and wretched. He works his jaw against the sharp pain of relieved muscles.

Lestrade mutters something, and Sherlock suddenly is reminded of the wings. “John, can you put them away?” he asks softly. John shakes his head, trying to swallow. He coughs more. “Stay still, then,”

Sherlock begins to saw at the bindings holding the wings at the carpel joint, and Lestrade pipes up. “What the _fuck_ is that, Sherlock? What. The. _Fuck_.” His confusion and and the adrenaline make him sound both angry and aggrieved.

“Shut it, Lestrade.” He gets through the first set and John's wings fall open, slithering along his back and over the sides of the table. A few severed feathers float to the floor as well.

Lestrade stands up, keeping one foot firmly on the back of the woman's neck to keep her down. He cranes his head to look around Sherlock's shoulder. “I am _not_ seeing bloody wings. What in buggering hell is going on?” His phone buzzes. He glances at the screen. “Backup's on the way,” he says.

Sherlock finishes the second layer of wrappings and John groans a little at the release of stress. Sherlock strokes his hands down both wings, from the _propatagium_ forming the leading edge to the tips of the tertiary feathers that run down either side of John's spine. He can see the black lines drawn across his back, as if to mark him up for surgery, and rubs his thumb angrily across it, but it won't erase. “John, the wings?” He unbuckles the middle restraint, and then moves around the table freeing John's other arm and then feet.

John is still holding his knife, white knuckled around it. He tries to talk, but keeps coughing. “Lestrade,” Sherlock barks. “Get him some water. She's not going anywhere.” It's true, the woman is lying, gray and limp now, bleeding heavily. Sherlock, hands gentle, almost tentative, lifts John until he can sit. His head jerks and falls, so Sherlock moves between his knees to hold his head against his chest, stabilizing it. He strokes his hands on the ruffled wings again. “You have to put them away, John,” he says again. John shudders, and shakes his head minutely.

Water runs, and Lestrade comes back. Sherlock takes the cup (actually, it's a biopsy sample container, but he's not picky. Obviously it was sterile.) John drinks and drinks. He holds on to Sherlock's waist with the other hand. Lestrade stares and stares, circling around to John's back. John drops the empty cup. “Minute,” he finally rasps into Sherlock's shirt. “Vertigo.” His voice is broken and raw.

Lestrade's face is colorless behind John. “Is this fucking real?” he asks Sherlock. Limp wings shudder across the surgical bed, draped on either side until the primaries brush the floor. The operating light across feathers highlights the gold and brightens the deep brown into cinnamon. Color and depth and pattern ripple through each magnificent wing, barred pinions twitching minutely as John tries to recover enough to retract them. Sherlock runs his hand along one edge, and feels John relax a little against him.

Sherlock gives Lestrade a _look_. “Not as far as you're concerned, Lestrade. You have _never seen this_ , do you understand?”

“But. But. Jesus. Can I touch it?”

“No!” Sherlock pulls John in closer, with one hand protectively over his wing, and the wings quiver faintly and then, _at last!_ , slip out of existence.

“Aw, _bloody hell!_ ” Lestrade explodes. “What the _sodding fuck_ is going on here?”


	20. Taking John Home

 

Lestrade, of course, cannot be convinced that he didn't see John with somewhat tattered but still enormous and magnificent wings. Sherlock would be slightly disappointed in him if he _could_. However, when his bumbling backup finally burst through the door (“We had to search the whole bloody hospital!” Sally complains. “Why didn't you answer your phone, you bugger?”) Lestrade wisely says nothing about it. Sherlock is perfectly comfortable using Mycroft's omnipotence as a threat to all Lestrade holds dear, including career and family, and had not held back in telling him so.

John, now that his throat is relubricated, is talking nonstop. “They knocked me out with M99, Sherlock. Can you believe it? It's meant to take out an _elephant_. I wasn't able to defend myself at all. Might as well castrate me now. Jesus. Defeated by a needle, for fuck's sake.” But he shudders, and his face still has a slight gray hue. Sherlock keeps an arm firmly around his back as he helps him slip down from the table.

“John, you need to shut up,” Sherlock murmurs. A team from A&E has been called up, and Bernie and Dr. Linley are being loaded onto stretchers with all the attendant fuss. Nurses and orderlies are milling about with wide, horrified, _inquisitive_ eyes. Lestrade's backup team are underfoot, attempting to be certain the two unconscious villains remain secured.

“I can't shut up, Sherlock. I'm pumped full of fucking sodium thiopental, how do you think she found out about me in the first place--” John wobbles, and holds on to Sherlock with both arms. He appears more drunk than damaged.

Sherlock rudely gestures away a nurse who comes over to assess John and puts a finger, very lightly, so it won't press or impair his breathing, across his lips. “Shhh. We need to go home.”

John's shirt is wadded up on the floor, stained and sodden with blood and saliva. Sherlock leaves it there, but finds his jacket on a counter and drapes it over John's shoulders. The curving line cut into his side is already crusting over, so Sherlock doesn't worry about it. Every time John tries to talk, Sherlock shushes him. He's still very shaky, so Sherlock pulls him close, for support both emotional and physical, he is aware. John leans trustingly against him.

Lestrade wanders over to them, hands clasped behind his back. “What can you tell me about the weapons used on our two killers?” he asks.

“I can tell you that they're in the same place as the wings, Lestrade,” Sherlock replies in an impatient undertone. “You're not going to find a weapon.”

Lestrade examines John with intense curiosity and then throws out his hands in frustration. “Well, how am I--?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “That is up to you, Inspector. Just keep John's unique... talents... out of it. Need I threaten you?”

Lestrade looks involuntarily over his shoulder, as if a CCTV camera may in fact be trained on them _now_. Then he straightens his shoulders, pulling authority back around himself. “Now see here, Sherlock--”

Sherlock looms over Lestrade. Ergo, John is leaning towards him as well, since he's clamped resolutely in Sherlock's arms. “Lestrade: you. can't. find. the. weapon. The native incompetence of your team will ensure that such an outcome is both expected and accepted. Problem solved.”

Lestrade looks around. Said crew, now down to Sally, Anderson, and Dave, are staring curiously at them. Especially at Sherlock, who has metamorphosed from someone who never touches anyone to [holding John in a very close, protective, full-body hug](http://justfoolinround.tumblr.com/image/35929146421). And John, still drugged and disoriented and hurt, just leans all his weight on Sherlock, face tucked into his shoulder; partly to ensure that his mouth stays closed.

Sherlock, of course, notices what they're all focused on and levels an icy stare at the gawkers over John's head. His arms tighten fractionally as he turns back to Lestrade. “You've got this under control, Lestrade. Call by tomorrow, and I'll give you the records of her financial transactions for the past six months. We have to go now.” He releases John and pushes him gently towards the door.

“You're always pushing me around,” John complains quietly, steadier now. “As if I don't know how to do it myself. I may not have last week, you know, but now I remember a whole fucking _life_.”

“You like it when I push you around,” Sherlock says absently, as the doors swing shut behind them.

Lestrade, amused, cocks his ears and hears part of an answer, “Alright. Yes. But that's only because it shows you love me--” He smothers a grin. John is just _fascinating_. On many levels.

 

Finally they're safely in the flat. Sherlock emphatically closes, and even _locks_ the door behind them. He wants John to feel very safe. _He_ wants to feel safe. He pours John onto the sofa and makes some tea.

John's loquaciousness is beginning to wear off, along with all the sedatives, but not before Sherlock learns some important things. Things he isn't sure what to do with. Like John saying _you love me._ And _I knew you were coming, because I could feel you getting closer_ , patting the spot on his chest where Sherlock felt their connection earlier. And _I keep thinking about dancing with you. That's one of the most amazing things that's happened to me in my lif_ e. And, slumping against his shoulder in the taxi, _Will you kiss my ear again?_

Although he'd agreed to the final request with alacrity, Sherlock refrained from comment on the other surprising statements, unwilling to commit to the newfound depth of his feelings. They were too new. Not fragile, though. Surprisingly strong, in fact. As if their emotional bonding had begun months and months ago, from when Sherlock had fist begun to care for the egg.

Although Sherlock has been physically close to plenty of people sporadically over the last decade or so, he can't say the same about emotions. Actually there is no one like John, that he cares for both emotionally and literally. He's never _taken care_ of another human. Yet he tended the egg 24/7, feeds his John, makes sure he sleeps, holds him close, protects him when necessary. Or quickly rectifies the situation as soon as he realizes there's real danger. He _wants_ to care for John. Derives the same deep pleasure and satisfaction from it that he gets from solving a case.

More, even. Evidently. Because the serial vivisections case is solved now, and he isn't paying it a bit of attention. All his focus is on John. Wan and shaky and vulnerable.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asks, as he hands John some tea.

John's still feeling the truth serum. “I have an insignificant laceration on my right side,” he lists clinically as he sips his tea. He holds the mug tightly with both hands. “It will match yours. And my entire chest cavity feels bruised, thanks to hosting a current of 360 joules, which induced a heart attack. I'm still affected by periodic tremors and intermittent tachycardia. While unpleasant, none of these things are life threatening, although I'll keep an eye on them. I'd like to clean the cut, but it was made with a sterile scalpel, so I'm not too concerned about it.”

They sit in silence for a while as they finish their tea. They are pressed warmly side to side on the sofa. Finally John leans forward and sets the mug down with a _click_. He rises and twitches off his jacket. Sherlock hovers at his elbow as he makes his way to the bathroom. “Med kit,” he mutters. He washes the cut up, applies an antibiotic ointment and a few plasters. His hand _does_ shake, Sherlock notices.

Sherlock leans in the doorway, dangling his weight from the lintel with one hand, elbow sharply crooked above his head, watching John doctor his wounds, eyes an opaque gray in this light, fixed intently on John.

John looks up when he is finished and freezes, tongue snaking between his lips. Sherlock's gaze is a force of nature, consuming and powerful. The attention skewering him should laser a flaming hole through his body. Instead, it only generates heat.

Sherlock had shed his coat and jacket upon entry and wears a straining maroon shirt, buttons pulling tighter because of the forward pressure of his body, leaning into space, suspended by the hand overhead as if laid out for display.

“Fuck,” John says, filter evidently still checked out. “You're just bloody _beautiful_ , aren't you?”

Sherlock gives a slow blink. He's taken by surprise, but it doesn't show on his face, which he keeps controlled. Here, in truth-telling John, is a situation he can take advantage of.

“What do you want to do about it?” he asks. His voice is low, purring and also dispassionately curious.

“Christ, keep talking,” John says with abandon. “Don't stop, it's sexy as hell.” A series of disparate emotions flit quickly across his expressive face: lust, surprise, chagrin, guilt. “I can't believe I just said that.”

Sherlock crinkles his eyes and twitches half of his mouth in a Sherlock-smile and swings further into the bathroom, scooping John closer to him with his free arm. “It's nothing I hadn't already deduced, John,” he says. “John.” He says his name because he knows John loves to hear it, deep and rumbling. “John,” the last time he says the name he tugs John softly up against him, breaths very lightly into his ear.

John melts against that lean chest, shaking, inhales sharp and long as warm breath curls into his ear. His head falls back (Sherlock catches it in his hand) and slowly walks his hand up Sherlock's extended arm, to curl over his fingers wrapped around the molding. He moves closer, until their bodies are slotted tightly together.

“You make me hot,” John says quietly, not trying to talk dirty, just stating a fact. “I'm usually cold, but when you talk to me, when I hear your _insanely._..” John pauses for a second, casting about for the right word, “... _suggestive_ voice, it feels like summer. Makes me want to start taking my clothes off.”

Sherlock's pupils are so blown now that there's only the thinnest halo of color ringing them. A pink flush rises, tinting his cheeks and lips. His eyelids lower, staring appraisingly at the trousers and shoes that are all the clothing that remains on John at this moment. “I can help you with that, John.”

“Ah. Jesus. Did I really just tell you that? I was better off gagged.” He unwinds his arm from Sherlock's waist and massages his jaw, working it back and forth, recalling the discomfort of the actual gag. Sherlock straightens up, releasing the lintel and puts his hand over John's, then moves to stroke his cheek. There's a tiny spot of blood at the corner of his mouth, where dried skin had cracked, stretched too far around the gauze.

Sherlock's mouth says nothing, but his eyes show regret. “What do you want me to do?” he asks, ignoring the internal crisis John is having over involuntarily expressing his innermost thoughts.

“I want you to groom my feathers,” John answers, taking Sherlock completely by surprise. Again. “Please.”

He glances towards John's back, but the wings aren't there.

“I can feel them, even now,” John explains. “They. They're all ruffled and disorganized, and some are broken. I can feel it. It's making me... twitchy. Dirty hands have been on them....” John doesn't say how violated he feels, because he's not consciously aware of that. All he knows is that he wants... _needs_... Sherlock's long fingers soothing down his feathers, scooping them back into order, owning them and dissociating them from the ghastly operating theater and it's psychopathic inhabitants.

Sherlock runs his hands over John's shoulders, down his back, thumbs pressing deep into his shoulder blades. “Come on, then.” Sherlock heads for the lounge, and John is right behind. Sherlock guides John to sit on the back of his gray chair, as he so often does himself, and kneels down. “Shoes,” he explains, and gently, efficiently, takes them off, leaving John barefoot and unguarded. “Trousers,” he says, looking up. “There's blood on them.” John looks down at the leg where Bernie had bled. He hadn't noticed it before, and shudders. He stands quickly and strips them off with an expression of distaste. “Do you want a shower?” Sherlock asks, tossing the stained trousers in the general direction of the bin in the kitchen.

“Not now. Just. My wings--” Seated high on the back of the chair, bare feet comfortably nestled in the seat, John has space enough to pop out his wings. Sherlock stands back as they appear, marveling at the sheer mystery of it. As he looks, he can see why John's upset. The feathers _are_ wildly disarrayed, especially around the shoulder and carpel joints where they were fettered. Many are badly bent, poking out at awkward angles and tangled with their neighbors.

Sherlock reaches out and touches one such, shaft broken partway through, dangling by a thread. John jerks at the touch, hunching his wings in tight; Sherlock makes a soothing noise, holds John's shoulder with his other hand. “Should I cut the broken ones?” he asks. “They cannot be fixed.”

John shrugs, nods, then shakes his head. “I'm not an avian expert,” he says. “I don't know what the hell to do with them. I've never had wings before. We'll try it.”

Sherlock gets scissors from the desk and carefully cuts the feather just above the break. He angles the cut, for aesthetics. “Does it hurt?” he asks, deep and mellow and solicitous. He nestles the amputated end back among its companions. There. Not too bad.

“No. Just feels weird.” John drops his head down, and Sherlock combs through the wings, clipping where he must, arranging the feathers; and stroking each one with his fingers, so that the barbs can interlock properly, leaving them smooth. He begins at the shoulders and eventually reaches the wingtip primaries. He takes his time, moving slowly and deliberately, giving each feather due consideration and effort.

He understands that this is a ritual to help John calm down. To his surprise, he finds it calms him down as well. He has been very keyed up, alternately seething and fearful since he realized John was in danger. The very real sensation of peril and trepidation that sang along the line binding him to John is now settling into a quiet, warm vibration. As Sherlock straightens the chaos in front of him, caused by violent hands, he feels their connection settle, until it becomes the slow, thrumming conversation of two heartbeats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JustFoolinRound drew a lovely picture for this chapter. In case you missed the link embedded in the story, here it is: http://justfoolinround.tumblr.com/image/35929146421


	21. Affirmation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Author's Note: I'm so sorry this took so long! Thanksgiving week turned out to be terribly chaotic, and I'm still trying to recover.
> 
> ***Since it's been so long, you may want to start by reading Chapter 20 again, since this chapter is a direct result of that build-up. That's how I would do it, anyway!
> 
> ***Thank you, Mildredandbobbin, for reading over this when it had gone entirely stale and meaningless, and letting me know that it still had some sizzle! Go read her lovely new work How I Impregnated Your Mother.

**Chapter 21: Affirmation**

John relaxes under his ministrations, perched precariously on the cushioned back of Sherlock's chair. His skin is slightly cool, exposed as it is to the air of the flat; warmer where Sherlock's hands rest. He should feel strange sitting there in nothing but his pants, but he can't find it in himself to be self-conscious now, thrumming as he is with sodium thiopental.

After many long minutes of silent grooming, John's so relaxed he begins to make small humming noises. Sherlock's touches gradually evolve from pragmatic and soothing to provocative and covetous. John melts further. Now Sherlock presses harder, digs deeper, moves closer, so that John can feel breath hot against his skin; and John shivers and moans. [Sherlock leans down to kiss the back of his arched neck](http://mindpalaceofversailles.tumblr.com/image/36194508776), drags his lips up against his hairline, around to his ear.

 

“I was... somewhat distressed to find the blood in the office. I'm very relieved it wasn't yours.” Sherlock knows this is an understatement but is unwilling to commit to more emotional language. John's breath gusts out in a silent laugh (the understatement is flagrantly manifest), but he remains malleable under questing hands. Sherlock continues, “They shocked you? With the defibrillator?” John nods. “Is that how they got your wings?” He nods again. Sherlock runs his chin along John's jawline, returns, and licks inside the curve of John's ear. John makes a small noise and jumps slightly. “Will your heart be ok?” John gives a nod and a tiny shrug. “I want to kill her,” Sherlock grates. “Both of them.” He traces the black marker lines around each of his wings, and then a gentle finger feathers over the shallow scalpel incision on his ribs. John pushes his head back against Sherlock's solid shoulder.

“Was she going to try a transplant?”

“I don't think it was a serious threat,” John whispers. “Not right away, anyway. Just wanted to scare me.”

Sherlock is coldly furious as his hands skim down Johns wings, lifting them until the tips of the feathers leave the floor. “They will _not_ survive in jail,” he promises in a dark, clipped voice.

John flutters, and papers float off the desk. Sherlock catches under each wing and pulls, stretching the wings back. It is a luxurious and sensual movement, and John arches back against him with a groan. Sherlock shifts his grip to John's shoulders and does the same thing, fingers flexing deep in the deltoid muscles. “Sherlock,” John says, asking for... something. He doesn't know. His voice is wispy and wanton. Sherlock moves around to the front of the chair and leans on a knee placed between John's feet.

“John,” he answers, deep and steady and assured.

John thinks, _This is what I need. The only person I thought of when death seemed imminent. When the world flashed white, and my heart actually stopped beating,_ this _is the man I wanted to say goodbye to. When that insane bitch began drawing lines on my skin with a scalpel instead of the marker, I was only glad it wasn't Sherlock under their hands. And I knew._ Knew _. that he would come for me. I simply had to hold on...._

Sherlock's palms drift up John's legs, from the tops of his feet and curving to hard quadriceps, long hands spanning an impossible amount of their girth. “You're thinking, John.” He sounds disapproving. He pushes lightly inside his knees and inserts himself in between them, kneeling on the chair, now hip to ribs with John. He looks down at deep blue eyes and a flushed face.

“I resented you,” John spills suddenly, damning the serum for his loose lips. “I didn't want to find you so fascinating and compelling. I didn't want to think you were brilliant and beautiful and... and wild. I don't know. Unbridled. I didn't want to hope that I could be the one. The one who succeeded. And caught you. I didn't want to look at... at... a _man_... and tingle to my fingertips with the desire to touch him. You. To... to learn your body...” John's eyes are huge and black now, and febrile patches flame on his cheeks. His hands tangle with Sherlock's, pressed together on his thighs. “To learn the sounds you make. And the way you taste.”

His face is tilted up, speaking only centimeters from lushly chiseled lips, deeply shadowed philtrum. “I didn't want to be connected to you, follow you. I didn't want to be a pet or some stupid, brainless chick.”

“But you _are_ mine,” Sherlock rebuts. “Not my pet, that's absurd.” He drops the little bit more and rests his lips on John's, briefly static before moving. The pace is slow but growing, hands sweeping around from thighs to buttocks, pulling closer. John whimpers, and Sherlock insinuates his tongue, confident and demanding.

John yields, sucking on it lightly as Sherlock learns his teeth, his hard palate, the insides of his lips. Swelling cocks brush against each other as blood moves them, and then hips take over, pressing and sliding, chasing sensation.

“You _do_ know my taste.” Sherlock hooks his tongue behind John's front teeth as if to haul him closer. “You know my smell.” He tugs John's head to one side and mouths down his neck, teeth scraping shivering trails inside the damp heat. “That we are connected is indisputable.” He begins to work on John's ear, supporting him more and more as he goes pliant and fervid, making soft sounds of acquiescence and need. “I will have to design experiments to test that.” Even in the middle of a sexual rush Sherlock cannot help but be Sherlock.

He points his tongue, seals his mouth against John's ear, and begins to tongue-fuck his ear canal. John gives a strangled shout and jerks violently in Sherlock's hands, grabbing at him desperately. Electricity sparks under his skin like a cloak of spiderweb, spreading in knotted polygons over his body from his ear to his straining cock. Droplets pulse from the slit there, echoing the hot tongue thrusting in his ear.

“ _Sherlock. Ahhh. Christ on a. Sherlock!_ ” There is an endless writhing moment, John's head held tightly, hard fingers wrapped around his jaw and nape. He is a raw, thrumming nerve.

“You are... my partner,” Sherlock murmurs, gravelly and breathless, when he draws back for air. “I need you with me.”

“Yes,” says John. And he's agreeing to many things, most unspoken. He rouses enough unbutton Sherlock's shirt, opening it to reveal a gleaming chest, sparse crisp hairs. He leans in to taste, sucks on the collarbone, presses his lips against a sparingly-mounded pectoral, drags thumbs across round pink nipples. They tighten and Sherlock's breath hisses out, his hips thrust forward.

Before John can challenge Sherlock's control by teasing the peaked, rosy nubs, Sherlock moves. He drops down John's body, kissing carelessly along his torso as his hands work the band of John's pants over the head of his cock. Hot breath rushes around it and John groans; his fingers spasm in their hold of Sherlock's upper arms. Sherlock looks up, wicked eyes bright green and knowing, tilted and alien and _hot_  and breathes again. John bucks forward. “Sherlock!”

And so he lowers his head and licks. Swirls his tongue like an exploring finger, around the glans, the foreskin, the lubricated eye, the scant few centimeters he's exposed. John leans back more, and beats his wings for balance. Several small items crash to the floor, but are ignored. Sherlock hooks his thumbs under the band again, scraping against the small of John's back, and tugs down right to where his rear meets the cushion. His fingers tease there, back and forth, up and down along the meridian of John's arse, rough callouses catching on the smooth skin, and John's cock jumps forward as he shudders. “ _Mine_ ,” Sherlock says again. And then, “Lift.”

John does, and Sherlock pulls back and stares. Then he blinks slow, licking his lips. “Very nice,” he growls. He sweeps the pants over John's knees and then off, tossed to the floor.

“Sherlock. Oh, god--” Sherlock slithers down until his knees are on the floor. He is now arranged at the perfect height. He adjusts John's thighs, angling them wider. John grips the back of the chair, supporting his weight at his shoulders, and watches Sherlock with luminous, entranced eyes.

Sherlock pauses to engage in an old-fashioned eye-fuck, amping up the heat and intensity of their locked gaze while his thumbs graze the seam of John's groin. John licks his lips and presses them tightly together. His fingers whiten in their grip of the chair, his breathing becomes ragged, and sweat glazes his chest. Sherlock meanders closer: now thumbs are parting sandy-colored pubic hair, and John's cock jumps again. This time, when his tongue moistens his lips, they remain parted. It is invitingly dark, warm and wet behind them.

Sherlock's long, cool fingers drift closer, tantalizing, until they circle the base. John starts: he hadn't seen the sudden grasp coming because Sherlock has him skewered in the cone of his vision.

Floundering through layer after molten layer of verdant blue, cerulean gray, mercuric green, John gasps when Sherlock reaches the tip of his cock, thumbing the spit-damp, sensitive skin of its head. “Sh-- Sherlock,” John breathes. He starts to drop his eyes, he wants to see those spidering fingers in action, but Sherlock shakes his head minutely.

“No. John. Watch me.”

Perforce, John does, sparking from the unearthly paleness, the unbearable heat of cat-shaped eyes. Sherlock keeps his head still, but cages John's cock and tilts it out, until the head, emerged from its collar of fragile skin, deep red and shiny with fluid, rests against carved pink lips. John's breathing nearly stops for the second time that night. Jesus he's never seen anything this beautiful, this erotic in all his life. Sherlock stills, as if to let him look his fill. He blinks. The lips part. Hot, humid air swirls around John's cock and then....

Sherlock's mouth is on him.

Fully. Deeply. Sherlock swallows him clear to the root, and the heat of his mouth burns as intensely as the heat in his eyes, and John is lost. Lost. Sherlock watches him. _Observes_ , as he slides slowly back, tongue vibrating and cheeks shadowed and concave.

John devolves. Sherlock holds him sharply at his hips so that he cannot thrust. He controls the pace, the sizzling wet slide, and foremost, dominates John's focus with vibrant, fathomless eyes. Words have become alien and John communicates through groaning encouragement, gasping surprise, suppressed thrusting, stuttering breaths through opened mouth.

And Sherlock never breaks their gaze. Licking, sucking, the occasional drag of guarded teeth. Waves of flexion through his hands massaging John's hips even as they bind them.

Words return, if not coherence.

“ _Sherlock. Jesus. Fuck. Sherlock. Oh, god. Yes. Don't . More. Fuck. I'm going to. I'm going--_ ”

And as John crescendos, Sherlock pulls away. So cruel. And John is crazily frustrated. “No. No. What?” He releases the chair back to touch himself: to finish, relieve the pulsing ache Sherlock left behind. But Sherlock surges to his feet, snatches both John's wrists, and pulls him off the chair.

“Bedroom,” he commands, pulling John forward. John is hot, fractured, dizzy, and none of that even encompasses the remaining drugs in his system. He allows Sherlock to tug him back to his bedroom, as he undoes his own trousers one-handed on the way.

He pushes John back to the bed and lets his trousers drop to the floor. John lands on his back, winces as a wing is caught under him. Suddenly, there are no wings, and John looks like a normal man. Of course, he and Sherlock both know he's anything but. Sherlock mourns the wings, but doesn't argue. He has plans and extra appendages might interfere. He steps out of his pants, catching socks on the way, and there is Sherlock: long and pale and nude and beautiful, standing tall between John's knees.

“Oh, god,” John breathes. “Look at you. You're too beautiful to be real.” His cock is leaking, a strand of sticky fluid stretching from its tip to the muscles of his abdomen. “I want you. You're a _man_. And I hardly know you. And I want you _so bad_. Damn. Bollocks. It's the sodium thiopental. I'm sorry, I can't control my mouth.”

“It's fine, John.” Sherlock affects a crooked, flashing grin.

“No. Wait. I know, I should put something in it. That'll shut me up.” John sits up, holds Sherlock's narrow hips tightly between his hands, tugs them towards him. “I'll start with this. I've never done it before, so you'll have to let me know if I do it wrong,” he looks worriedly up at Sherlock. “But I really, really want your cock in my mouth. I don't know...”

Sherlock snickers. “Shut up, John,” he says. His long fingers lightly squeeze aiming himself in John's direction, and John greedily leans forward. It is clumsy, and arrhythmic, and there is some gagging and slobbering, but Sherlock is totally high, connected to earth only by John's hot mouth and bruising fingertips. He throws back his head and holds onto John's, begins to guide him, give him rhythm, feel the hollowing of his cheeks beneath the palms of his hands. “Yes. Like that.” He holds John still, and slowly thrusts in and out, hedonistically enjoying the wet drag of each pull, the pocket heat in each push, the tongue, desperate to find a proper chore. He keeps one hand wrapped around the base, to keep from choking John any more than he already is. He remembers only an hour earlier, the abusive misuse of gauze packing that cavity full. Pink deepens to red across high cheekbones, and Sherlock's lips open in gasps. Color sifts down his throat to his chest.

John watches as he is able, slips his hands around to flexing buttocks, digging in and savoring the hard handfuls, so different from a woman's softness. He tries to breathe through his nose, wiggles his tongue around. It's trapped on the bottom of Sherlock's shaft, there will be no teasing circling now, Sherlock is too buried, thrusting deeply and steadily.

“John. John. You feel so good. You have no idea. Ah. Christ, yes!” Sherlock mutters, sounding vaguely demented.

Then, Sherlock halts with a deep groan; pulls out with a _pop_ , eyes lambent. “Too much,” he mutters. “Lie back, John. Budge up.” He pushes at him impatiently and imperiously. John complies, scrambling up on the bed and then lying back on a pillow. Sherlock swarms up his body, crawling over him, until their faces are level. “John.” He grabs John's hands, pulls them until they're just over his head, and then leans his full weight down on his wrists. “This.”

Sherlock goes straight for his ear, nudging his face to the side with his own. He attacks it, biting and pulling and blowing on wet, sensitized whorls. John whimpers and bucks, and now Sherlock's body is pressed heavy against his, giving him friction. He is hot, skin-splitting heated, tension vitalizing his nerves until he's a writhing wreck. He tugs against the hands that hold him down, but they clamp down strongly, do not yield.

Sherlock leans up again, propped crushingly on John's wrists, pushing them deep into the pillow; his hips are rolling against John, cocks stuttering against one another in erotic and marginally painful tugs of dry skin.

“Sherlock. Sherlock....” John's eyes are rolling shut, and Sherlock gives his wrists a bounce. “Eyes open, John,” he rasps. “Eyes on me.”

John struggles to keep his eyes open, enmired in feline burning jade. Sherlock shifts his weight to one side, fumbles in the nightstand drawer and pulls out a bottle of lube. He pumps a squirt, one-handed, into his unbandaged palm. John keeps his hands held over his head, watching the smoothly sliding muscles of Sherlock's back and side as he twists and levers. There's a constellation of small moles over his ribs, and John wants to lick them. The plaster on his side peels up at one corner, and John smooths it back down before returning his hand to where Sherlock had held it.

Sherlock sits back over John's thighs and looks over his body, predatory and possessive. He reaches for John's erection, slowly lubes it up, ruts his hips against John's thighs until their cocks are level, and Sherlock is holding them both now; slick and warm, they slide together. John watches, fascinated, the bobbing heads aligned, popping in and out of Sherlock's fist like a pornographic game of Whac-A-Mole. “Ahhh,” he moans, hips pushing up gluttonously.

Sherlock comes back down, weight off-center, grabs John's wrists again with his free hand, bearing down almost cruelly. John arches towards him, head and shoulders off the bed, arms pulled taut behind him. Sherlock kisses him hard, and John is frantic, too. Tongues clash in time to the pounding of cocks in Sherlock's fist. The rutting grows more intense, John is sucking as hard as he can, and Sherlock teases, tongue in, then pulling back out. John's body is a bow, straining, reaching,

and Sherlock pushes against him; their rhythm disintegrates. Sherlock is gasping, sweat sliding down his temples, holding John's gaze like a physical thing, and _Mine, Mine Mine_ streams from his mouth like butter: heavy, velvet, rich. John arcs back , slitted eyes still staring, and pulses, shakes, comes in Sherlock's calloused fingers, and the feeling is not dissimilar to the defibrillating paddles of earlier, but so _SO_ good, and he says _Sherlock, Fuck, God, Sherlock!_

And as he reaches his own peak, Sherlock freezes, strung taut and trembling, features incandescent, mouth red and open, painted with arousal; and John feels searing spurts of come joining his own across his chest. They hold that pose for several dazzled seconds. The moment is crystalline.

Then, slowly, with tiny twists of hips, gentle come-down rolls, they weave through tremoring aftershocks until they relax and begin to soften. John twitches his bruised wrists in Sherlock's hand, and he loosens his fingers, soothes over the red marks before propping himself on his elbow. Slow, sipping kisses. Quiet murmurs. Come cooling between their bodies. Sherlock withdraws his sticky hand, fumbles again with the bedside drawer and pulls forth a handful of tissues. Perfunctorily, he swipes at them both, and tosses the tissues onto the floor. He topples to the pillow next to John. “Good,” he says. “That was good. Perfect.”

“God, yes,” John agrees, still catching his breath. He tenses and ripples with a last shudder, reliving the orgasm. “But I thought we were going to have sex.”

Sherlock snorts with genuine laughter, and rolls to face John. “Bloody hell, John! What kind of standards have you got? What do you _think_ we just did? Is this the sodium thiopental again?” His eyes are crinkled with mirth, lines radiating away into his temples and across his cheeks, and John can't help but laugh back.

“Well. Yes. God, when is it going to wear off? You'd think this amount of physical activity would wring it out of my system. But... I thought. You know.” He flutters his hand abstractly over his belly. “Penetration. I mean. We're men. Somebody has to poke something _somewhere_ , right?”

Sherlock runs his hand down John's side, grips his hip and rolls him over so that they're face to face, bodies scarcely touching. “This is new for you John. Even given your past life,” he coughs a little when he says that, given that it's rather absurd and sounds very sketchy and New Age. “You're not ready for that. We _did_ have sex. That _was_ sex, believe me. There are many different ways to do it.” He noses down John's cheek, nips his ear, drops a kiss on his sex-softened mouth. “We've got time. We can explore. See what we like.”

He falls to his back and tilts John forward until he's nestled on his chest, just as they have been sleeping every night since John hatched out of his impossible egg. John throws his arm across Sherlock's slight belly, snuggles closer. Sherlock smells of come. Of sweat, and morgue and crisp cotton, and John couldn't be happier with his new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***I'd like your opinion on this chapter, Dear Reader, if you don't mind contributing. Does the story feel complete? Or do you need another chapter to tie up some loose ends? I can't make up my mind. I feel that this is a good place to write “The End”. However, some things (like the arrest of the killers) are more implied than specified. What do you think?
> 
> I DO have an Epilogue in the works, but that will take place a year or so down the road and doesn't involve the current mystery.
> 
> Also: MORE ART! (I'm so lucky! And surprised to inspire artists! It's just amazing and humbling: I love it!  
> *This time it's by the lovely MindPalaceOfVersailles. Again, I embedded the link, but in case that didn't work for you, or you want better resolution: http://mindpalaceofversailles.tumblr.com/image/36194508776  
> *And another picture that I'm putting in Chapter 5, so you will have missed it, and that just won't do! KayJayKayMe did a fantastic photomanip here: http://kayjaykayme.tumblr.com/image/35989027143 so go check it out!  
> *Also art for Chapter 20, in case you didn't back up and reread that one, by JustFoolinRound here: http://justfoolinround.tumblr.com/image/35929146421


	22. The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had betas for this! You'll have to let me know if I'm more polished, now :D
> 
> The lovely [Snogandagrope ](http://snogandagrope.tumblr.com/) pushed me into writing more in the first place, and helped me map it out a bit. Thanks a lot: look what you did! 4K words, woman!
> 
> And [MildredandBobbin](../../../users/Mildredandbobbin/pseuds/Mildredandbobbin), who has been a cheerleader all along, kind of morphed into a beta with solid concrit for all the next chapters. Thanks to you both!
> 
> The very talented [Zincesaucier](http://zincesaucier.tumblr.com/) was inspired to do a little wing!sex, so please enjoy the visual. Thank you so much, you gorgeous thing.
> 
> And thank you to all the readers who left feedback for the last chapter, letting me know if you thought the story needed more. Most of you thought it needed more sex and little wrapping up. So!
> 
> And I am so, SO sorry it took so long for me to update. You may rest happy, knowing that there are two more chapters after this, and they are already written and will be posted soon. And now... here it is....

John wakes up slowly in the morning. The light filtering through the crack in the curtains is still gray with dawn, and traffic is just starting to groan to life out on Baker St. He lies peacefully for a long time, drowsy and content, brain not yet engaged. He inhales Sherlock: morgue and sweat and crisp cotton.

He is tilted over Sherlock's chest, in his habitual morning position, nose in Sherlock's neck, soft dark curls tangling in his eyelashes. John blinks a few times, feeling the faint tug, just for the thrill of connection; and Sherlock ripples under him with a soundless laugh.

“What are you doing?” he asks, lifting an arm languidly to curve around the small of John's back, inscribing patterns in the hollow of his hip with long fingers.

“I thought you were asleep,” is John's response. He purses his lips and begins to nuzzle the soft skin over the sternomastoid muscle, darting out his sticky morning tongue to taste. He lazily suckles and nibbles there. Sherlock hums under him, more of a vibration than a noise, and tips his head to the side to give John better access.

Right. The neck.

Last night, John had intended to drive Sherlock wild via that lovely stretch of slender neck, but had somehow missed the opportunity. Perhaps because Sherlock had been so single-mindedly directing the activities. Well. _Things will go slower this morning_ , he promises himself.

He leans up on an elbow to get a better angle, pressing one hand hard against Sherlock's chest for balance and to keep him still. He worries the skin and muscle in his mouth, sucking hot and wet now, and Sherlock _moans_ , undulates again. There are two small moles on the side of his neck, and John tongues his way over to them, biting, blowing, laving. He shapes the bony ridge of an Adam's apple with his lips, and his mouth curves smugly when he feels it bob in a frantic swallow.

But Sherlock is still pushy and impatient. He reaches around with his other arm and slides his fingers though John's short hair, combing through the soft bristles. His hand wraps clear around the back of John’s head, holding him there at his neck. “John,” he murmurs. “That's good. Ungh. Very good.” He shifts John's hip so that they're pressed closer, and the heat of a growing erection stirs against tickling thigh hair. “Don't stop.”

John slides his leg over Sherlock's, settles it into the space between his thighs, brushing up against the loose scrotum, feeling Sherlock, turgid and eager against his hip. He rolls against him, moving his focus to the other side of Sherlock's throat. “John,” Sherlock begs, and shifts his hands to both John's hips, pulling him over until he is fully on top of Sherlock. He worms his other leg under John's until he is firmly caught between them.

Sherlock's head is tilted back obscenely. John increases his fervor, his pressure, the intensity of his attack, using lips and teeth to pull little dark marks to the the surface of white skin. He rings a pattern around the two moles, then moves down to the joining of shoulder and neck.

“Nnng. Oh, _yes_ , John. Fuck. That feels good. More--” Sherlock's fingers dig bruisingly into the globes of John's arse, tucking neatly into the crease under them, grinding him down onto his own hips. Strong thighs clamp around his legs, and he's adjusted erratically until their cocks are pressed together.

John laughs a little, breathy. He's wanted to work on that mile of gorgeous, graceful neck since he'd figured out that it was a trigger on that night after the fall. He weaves his fingers in Sherlock's hair and pulls, arching his head back even further, almost at a painful angle. Sherlock groans richly, ruts against him so hard that they're both momentarily lifted off the bed. “ _Yes!_ Like that. Yes.” Sweat begins to gild him, and there are lewd, tiny, sucking, popping noises as skin adheres then pulls apart.

Sherlock removes a hand briefly from John’s arse, and then returns it almost immediately. Long fingers, _wet_ now, slyly glide from the crease under his arse to the space between his buttocks, slipping in as if they belong and don't need an invitation. John stops marking Sherlock’s collarbone and tenses. He draws in a breath, but Sherlock grunts at him, annoyed. “I _said_ don't stop. Here. Kiss me.” He tugs his head against John's hold on his hair, and then, when John releases him, lifts it for a kiss.

Their mouths gradually grow wetter, losing the stale fuzz of the night as they suck it off each other's tongues. Sherlock rocks John solidly on the fulcrum of their cocks, using his arse as a lever, fingers pushing against his anus with each tug. He doesn't do anything more worrisome than that, though, and John sinks into the rush of a devouring kiss, and the heated pulse of friction and rhythm compelled by Sherlock’s movements.

John is ardent, his skin thin and strained from containing all that torrid pressure, and his shoulder blades begin to itch. The feeling is back. He needs to...

He gives in to the urge that has been building alongside the sensations from Sherlocks guiding hands, and releases his wings, with a gentle _whuffing_ sound. There, the desire to mount and flap is assuaged. The sudden fluttering breeze cools them both, and Sherlock’s eyes pop open. He grins in approval, John can feel it against his lips, but doesn’t pull back from the kiss. John beats his wings twice, broadly, moving the still air in the room, and then folds them around the bed. They are cocooned from the shoulders down. Sherlock shudders as feathers brush against his thighs and tangle in his toes.

Sherlock shifts under him again (he has a plan, John realizes distractedly), and twists his legs between John's, opening him up a little more. But the kiss is intense, and all John's brain cells are occupied with pleasure; so he just relaxes into the new posture, wings adjusting minutely, weight solidly on Sherlock’s torso, hands still buried in his hair. Sherlock bites his lip hard, scrapes his teeth on the soft inner flesh, then soothes it with a gentle tongue. He continues to oscillate John by fingertips on his arsehole; little back and forth movements along the heated length of Sherlock's erection, his chest, the wiry pubic hairs that catch and tangle with John's own.

John feels Sherlock sliding his clean hand upward, smoothing warm and firm along the small of his back, teasing over his ribs along the joining of wing and skin, darting under soft feathers to edge around to his cervical vertebrae, sweeping down until he’s got five fingers dug into John’s wing, jabbing through feathers until they meet the flesh beneath, and curving hard around the upper edge. John groans again, tries reflexively to flap, but Sherlock holds the wing forcibly, massaging his hand down the length of it to the carpel joint, stretching as he goes. “Ah! Jesus _fuck_ , Sherlock. You’re killing me....”

Sherlock deliberately moves his focus to John's ear, licking into it, blowing gently, just breathing, before taking it in sharp teeth. And John is suffused with a beguiling wash of heat. Goosebumps prickle over him and he shivers lightly, nipples nubbing up to be rewarded with more friction, brushing through the light hairs on Sherlock's chest. He groans loudly. “Sherlock. Sherlock. Aaah _god_ , Sherlock.” The insufferable man pulls on his ear again, mouth as hot as tea, and there are four points of pleasure zinging through John: his ear, his wing, his surging cock, and his anus as Sherlock's spit-slicked fingers press _almost_ inside, shimmy and wobble, each little pressure granting him a tiny bit more access, not neglected one bit by the attention Sherlock is paying to his feathers.

“Oh god. Oh. Fuck, Sherlock! What're you. _Doing?_ You can't. Sh-” Sherlock teases around his opening, using the newly accessible rim of it for each pull up his body, the tug obscured by the overwhelming sensation of pressure and slide against his length.

The rocking has loosened him so gently and gradually that he doesn’t even notice, doesn’t feel any discomfort, as clever fingers slowly breach him. One more quick, damp push; and Sherlock slips fully inside. He ghosts a fingertip around John's prostate. And now. Now there are flaring sparks sizzling out from the nerve bundle in his arse, and Sherlock is bucking up against him and moves to hold his head in a tight one-handed grip.

“Come on,” he mutters against John's ear. “John, come on. You need to--. I need--” he drills his tongue into John's ear and John just can’t take any more. He gives a hoarse shout, doesn't even know which intense sensation to chase after. But Sherlock solves that, by thrusting his hips up fiercely against John's, crushing their engorged cocks, curling his fingers inside him as if it's a handle to rub him back and forth over Sherlock,

and in a splendid manifestation of serendipitous timing, they come synchronously, the wrenching, scalding heat between their bodies sending John off into a purely transcendental moment. “Jesus _Christ_ , Sherlock. Fuck. Oh. Gnah guh. Sherlock.” And Sherlock pants back, “John. John! Oh god that's good. Yes. _John!!!_ ”

John collapses back onto Sherlock's chest, slippery now with sweat and come, and gasps for breath. Sherlock wiggles his fingers a little in John's arse, and John can feel his jaw shift in an invisible grin. Sherlock _slowly_ pulls them out, gentle, careful not to cause undue pain, as a hurried round of saliva can only go so far as a lubricant. He turns to nuzzle his jaw against John's damp hair. “You're so _good_ , John,” he murmurs, and slides his clean hand down John’s neck to gently stroke over his wings. John is still gasping, collapsing all his weight trustingly on top of Sherlock, all limbs lax and carelessly disposed. They lay still for a moment, recovering.

“Now you’ve had penetration, and you can call this _real_ sex,” Sherlock teases.

John doesn’t answer.

Then Sherlock abruptly notices that the pulse under his hand is very irregular, with long pauses and then periods of rapid patters.

He rolls immediately to the side, dumping John on his back (after considerately gathering his wing into a compact bundle under him, so he won’t crush it), and looms over him in concern. “John? John, are you alright?” John nods, but his eyes are wide, and he clutches his chest with both hands. “Your heart?”

John nods again, then shakes his head. “It's OK,” he says in a wheezy voice. “To be expected, after last night. Just give me a minute.” But he is ashen, his breathing shallow and labored, and the sweat on his face looks more like illness than post-coital glow. Sherlock is extremely concerned, his own heart galloping in sympathy. He thinks he can even sense a dulled echo of the ache John is feeling, in his own chest through the line that seems to bind them.

“Shall I raise your legs?”

“No. Just. Help me...

_Ah!_... sit up a little.” John sends his wings away, after a moment gathering himself to acquire the energy. Sherlock immediately scoops John up to rest against his shoulder, and then holds him there for several minutes, fingers pressed worriedly against his cartoid. It slows down gradually, and becomes more steady; he can feel John relax back into his side. The tension in his chest eases a bit.

“Better?” asks Sherlock.

John nods. “Yeah. I think. I'll just need a couple paracetamol.” He rubs his chest in the middle, over his sternum, and Sherlock can feel that, too, a warm comforting touch over a purple ache. They sit there a while longer. Sherlock pulls the blankets back up, and snuggles John against him, stroking soothingly over deep pectorals, sorting prickly golden-brown hairs with his fingers, until the sweat has dried and John isn't struggling for air any more.

“Tell me about it?”

“Arrhythmia and strain are pretty normal, after a heart attack,” John says. “Even externally forced ones, I now see. I just need to be a little more careful for the next few days.” He tips his head against the headboard and looks at Sherlock through short lashes, glowing in the slanted morning light, and smiles.

Sherlock nods seriously. “Of course.”

“But don't feel guilty,” John hurries to reassure him. “I chose to do that, yeah? I would do it again. It wasn't too much. Just need to be careful, that's all.”


	23. Loose Ends and Feathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Thanks to my betas Snogandagrope and MildrendandBobbin!

Lestrade comes by late that morning.  Ostensibly, he needs to finish paperwork and fill in any holes in the case by talking to Sherlock.  Actually, he wants to goggle at John.  John doesn't make himself a very interesting spectacle, disappointingly.  He wears a soft, biscuit-colored jumper and brown slacks.  His feet are bare, and he's a little pale.

  
Sherlock  _fusses_.  Lestrade stares.  He's never seen any such thing.  John makes tea, as usual, but Sherlock  _hovers_ in the doorway, and can't seem to keep his focus on the conversation he's having with Lestrade.  When John comes back in the lounge with the mugs, Sherlock instantly relieves him of the extras, handing Lestrade his with no flourish whatsoever.  He shoves John down into his lumpy red armchair, and then props himself protectively against the winged back of it.  He is silent, waiting.

  
Lestrade introduces the topic.  “Dr. Linley is still pretty heavily sedated.  We haven't got much but nonsense out of her.  Bernie Leekes cracked like an egg.  He's hemorrhaging information.  We've got proof enough to put them both away for several life sentences, thanks to you.”  He nods pointedly at Sherlock.

  
But Sherlock's intense focus is on Dr. Watson.  He does, however, say in a voice heavy with meaning, “I shall look forward to the court case.”

  
Lestrade shifts on the sofa, propping his cooling mug on his crossed knee, and looks to John, who smiles tiredly back at him.  “They both keep talking some gibberish about  _wings_ , Dr. Watson.  Can you elaborate on that?”  It's a rhetorical question, since everyone involved  _knows_ that there were wings.  Lestrade even knows about the knives.

  
John's eyes cut briefly to Sherlock, who stiffens.  They had actually printed out their statements an hour or so prior, to ensure that their stories were straight, carefully wording the documents so that no mention was made of John’s exceptional characteristics.  “As you say, Lestrade,” Sherlock growls, lasering into his eyes with his patented I-can-melt-your-brain-with-my-stare-alone-if-I-so-choose look.  “It is ludicrous.  You should let it drop.”

  
John quirks an almost invisible smile, and spreads his hands before him, thus ducking any responsibility in the conversation.

  
Lestrade rolls his eyes.  He knows what he saw, and decides to press the issue.  “I was  _there_ , Sherlock.  Hard to miss the bloody  _wings_ , wasn't it?  They took up half the room.  It took you a long while to untie him, and I was staring  _right at you_  when they disappeared.  I saw the corking knife disappear as well.  So tell me, what the  _fuck_ is going on?”  He looks at John, a little nervous, a little apologetic, but very much a cop, and says, “What  _are_ you?”

  
John's toes curl into the carpet, and he fixes his gaze on the tea.  This is a critical question, fraught with risk.  Sherlock leans closer and puts a hand on his shoulder.  He glares icy daggers at Lestrade.  “Can't you leave it alone?”

  
Lestrade stands up, and moves to lean against the desk, broad shoulders blocking some daylight.  He picks up a pen and fiddles with it a moment.  Finally, “Sherlock, you know you can trust me.  I've known you for five years.  When in that time have I ever betrayed your secrets?  I know we're not  _mates_.  But you can  _trust_ me.”  He is referring to finding Sherlock, near to dying in a pool of his own vomit, forearms rusty in crusted-over tracks from his final cocaine binge.  “If he--,” and he nods at John, including him in the discourse, “ever needs help again, it'd be good to have another person on your side.  What if you can't make it next time?”

  
“Mycroft--” Sherlock begins to bluster.

  
“Oh, bloody hell.  Your brother knows, too?  This is not a well-kept secret, Sherlock,” Lestrade looks chiding.

  
“Well certainly Mycroft isn't going to blab about it--”

  
“What?  And I am?”  He looks back at John, still holding the cold mug of undrunk tea.  “John, you're going to need friends and support.  They very nearly  _had_ you last night.”

  
John rolls his head, neck popping audibly, and twists his finger through the handle of the mug.  The he relaxes slightly and looks up at Sherlock.  “He's right, Sherlock.  And he's seen already.  If we  _can't_ trust him, then we're well and truly buggered now anyway, aren't we?”  

  
For an instant, the morning's activities flash before his eyes, although it technically wasn't buggering, and he flushes a little.

  
Sherlock huffs out an angry breath and shrugs.  “Fine, then.  Fine.”  He glares at Lestrade, and his eyes are flat and gray and more menacing than Lestrade has ever witnessed.  “But know that I.  Will.  Kill.  You.  If you ever leak of  _word_ of it.”  He is cold, and sincere, and Lestrade, inured as he is to violence and threats, still has to abort a primitive shiver of fear at that tone.

  
He holds out his hands.  “It's  _safe_ with me, Sherlock.  For god's sake!  I already told you.  Cross my heart and hope to die.  Jesus, what else do you need?  A contract signed in blood?”

  
There's an uncomfortable silence in the room.  The distant ringing of the phone in Mrs. Hudson's flat and irritated honking in the street below are the only sounds.

  
“Alright, then.” John says at last, when no one else steps in.  “I'll just start with.  Well.  It's hard to know where to start.”

  
“Start with the egg,” Sherlock says shortly.  Lestrade's eyebrows soar, and he swiftly moves back to the sofa and drops down, as if he's aware that he might want to be sitting for this one.

  
John nods.  “Ok.  Sherlock found an egg.   My egg.  Downstairs.”

  
“In the basement flat,” Sherlock takes over.  “It couldn't have been there for too long.  So I took it up here to incubate and hatch it.  Fairly obvious procedures, and I was intensely curious about what it might hold.”  He smiles briefly at John, who smiles warmly back.  “To my surprise, it was John.”

  
“John.”  Lestrade repeats dully.  “It was John.  That hatched out of the egg.”

  
“Yes,” Sherlock says, cool as a cucumber and as if it were an everyday occurrence.  “Over the next week, we realized that John had some... unique... features.  You have witnessed both:  the knives and the wings.  I've tried several experiments, but none comes close to explaining the phenomena, so for now we just have to accept it.”

  
In demonstration, John leans forward to set his mug on the table, and then holding his hands towards Lestrade, convulses his wrists and the knives are suddenly there.  Lestrade's eyes are very, very wide, and his face a shade paler.  “Where do they come from?” he says.

  
Sherlock makes an impatient sound.  “As I have just finished telling you.   _We.  Don't.  Know._ ”

  
“May I?” he reaches hesitatingly towards John.  John obligingly hands over one of the blades, hilt first.  Lestrade runs his fingers over it, noting the heft, the steel, the balance of it.  He scratches the edge along his thumbnail and watches a tiny filing of keratin curl in front of it.  It is  _very_ sharp.  When he looks back up, John twitches, and the knife disappears out of his hand.  Lestrade jerks.  “Ok,” he says.  “Ok.  And you don't know where they come from?”

  
“Same place as the wings, I expect,” John replies mildly.

  
Lestrade rubs his hands through silvering hair.  “Alright then, mate.  Let's see the wings?”  He holds his breath, hoping that John will do it.  They are so far into uncharted territory now that Lestrade's only defense is to go with the flow.

  
John flickers a glance back to Sherlock, who stands back as if to say  _On your own head be it_.  But clearly something more has passed between them, because John's lined face smooths out, and his lips curve up slightly, and he rises from his chair.  “Here,” he says.  “See?”

  
And with the  _whuff_ of feathers through air, the wings are there, held carefully so as not to get in the fireplace or knock things about in the room.  But within the space available, John considerately spreads them out.  Lestrade catches his breath.  He'd been brought up a good Catholic, and John,  _John_ , is superimposed over iconic childhood images of angels.  He shakes his head to dislodge the thought.   Whatever else he is, the man in front of him is no angel.  He stands up without being aware that he moved, and steps forward.  John holds still.

  
The feathers cascading behind him are brown, and gold, and gray.  Their pattern is nebulous near the shoulders, and vividly barred in gold and black at the wingtips.  Those outer feathers are enormous, at least 50 centimeters long.  His daughter has a hawk quill she'd found on a country visit once, still sitting on her desk, and John's are thrice as long, more dramatically banded.

  
Lestrade remembers to breathe again.  He looks at John's face, which is an interesting contrast of amusement and apprehension.  Sherlock moves behind John and puts his hands possessively on the crest of each wing, staring impassively at Lestrade.  John visibly relaxes, both shoulders and wings lowering minutely, the latter rustling softly.  Sherlock glances down and disapprovingly smooths a few feathers back into place.  John smiles for real.

  
“May I--”, Lestrade begins.  God why does this seem like an indecent proposal?  “--touch?”

  
John swallows, but nods.  Sherlock looks thunderous.  Lestrade approaches the wing furthest away from Sherlock, and reaches out a tentative hand.  The feathers feel warm and alive, twitching under his palm, and he is filled with awe.  

  
Then he notices that John is flinching, almost an expression of pain on his face;  and Sherlock reaches over and ungently knocks his hand away.  “Enough,” says Sherlock, and Lestrade steps quickly back.

  
“I don't understand,” he grumbles, barely aware that he's spoken aloud.

  
“Nor do we,” Sherlock says briskly, hands still guarding John's wings, fingers carding absently through soft brown feathers.  He glares at Lestrade over John's jumpered shoulder.  The color of the wool goes well with his feathers, Lestrade notes absently.

  
Then Lestrade has another thought.  “Where'd you get his identity?” he asks, and has a hysterical moment in his head, that he's accepted that an unknown man has hatched out of an impossible egg, and may require an identity.

  
“My old one-” John begins, but Sherlock says over him, “Mycroft, of course.  Now Lestrade, perhaps we can just go over our reports and be done with this?”

  
Lestrade shakes his head.  In disbelief, not denial.  “Do you have anything written up for me?” he asks hopefully.  Sherlock nudges printed sheets across the coffee table to a pleasantly surprised Lestrade, who sweeps them up and skims over them.  Their statements, damning evidence from the perspective of the accused, neatly skirt around any mentions of supernatural characteristics.  Lestrade laughs softly.  “If I hadn't actually seen it with my own eyes,” he says, nodding towards John's massive wings, “I would believe  _this_ ,” and he shakes the few pages at them.

  
“It is a good thing,” said Sherlock.  “Since that's what everyone else is going to need to believe, and that's what you're getting.”

  
“Yeah, yeah,” Lestrade grins at the pair of them.  “I'd be sectioned if I tried to contradict you, wouldn't I, then?  And since I like my job, you are, as I've already said, safe with me.  I've never been fond of the idea of a straight-jacket.”

  
John laughs, and even Sherlock's stern face twitches slightly, the idea of a smile cracking through until he stuffs it back inside.

  
As Lestrade leaves, the men behind him are still standing together in front of the fireplace, one bewinged and fantastical, and the other standing guard at his back.  He thinks,  _Only Sherlock.  Trust Sherlock to have found a partner as unique in every way as he is himself_.  Lestrade figures now that this must be the reason he could never picture Sherlock with a partner.  Even in his wildest  _dreams_ he couldn't have come up with a more improbable, or more perfect, companion for the stiff, strange genius.


	24. Epilogue

It has been 8 months since Sherlock and John put the serial vivisectionists in jail. As predicted, Dr. Linley had not survived prison. She'd been scratched in a mild fight in the yard one gray afternoon, and died very rapidly thereafter from a painful, nasty case of septicemia. There was, of course, no suspicion that outside influence was to blame. Bernie Leekes disappeared during a prison transfer to a minimum security facility: no one ever looked too hard for him after that. John decided to keep his head down and ask no questions. After all, he didn't really want to know the answers.

Many cases have come and gone since then. He and Sherlock have a firmly established partnership, in which John's special talents come in handy more than once, to Mycroft's great concern. They keep it a well-guarded secret, though (unless you're Big Brother with CCTV cameras all over the city and an army of minions to monitor them). Even Lestrade hasn't seen the wings again, although he's asked a couple of times, after a few or more pints at the pub.  John _has_ let him play with a knife a time or two, though.

But now. Now Sherlock is being played by a genius psychopath, and the rules seem to have changed. John watches with increasing frustration and trepidation as challenge seems to escalate into deadly threat, and Sherlock's world begins to crumble around him. John sticks loyally by his side, defending him as Sally levels her accusation that Sherlock has set up everything for years;  to satisfy his psychopathic desire for crime and to sham that he’s a genius detective.

And now John and Sherlock are run to ground, hiding in the lab at Barts, waiting for the next salvo in Sherlock’s downfall.

John won't give up. Of course he won't. He'll fight for Sherlock with everything he's got. He _believes_ in the man; doesn't just _love_ him. He will use every weapon at his disposal, and even challenge Sherlock himself when he seems to lose faith.

But this moment. This moment when John reports the call that says Mrs. Hudson has been shot, and Sherlock won't bestir himself to get off his lazy, self-absorbed arse and go to her. Mrs. Hudson!  This is close to being the final straw. John is so angry, and it's so wrapped in anxiety for his landlady, that he can hardly see.

John is in the cab, headed for Mrs. Hudson and 221B Baker St.  He holds his fingers stiffly out.  His hands are like a desiccated starfish, in the effort not to pull forth his knives and go to battle.  He is _fuming_ at Sherlock, and his pathological, selfish behavior of isolating himself from emotions because he perceives them to be debilitating.  “Alone is what I have.  Alone protects me,” my flaming arse.  And alongside the fury is terror.  Mrs. Hudson is more of a mother to him... to _both_ of them... than his own ever was.  The idea that she has been shot, may possibly die, because of this insanity with Moriarty, is dust in his throat.

He leans forward, pressing the floorboard hard with his feet, in a futile effort to will the taxi faster.

And then, Mrs. Hudson is fine, turning towards him in surprise, her expression vague and warm;  and momentarily horribly, vacantly silly.

Now John knows this is some appalling cosmic joke.   _‘Alone is what I have’_ is echoing in his head. He abruptly recognizes that part of the rage and fear he has been feeling is not originating from himself, but is instead vibrating across the line that connects him to Sherlock.

“Oh, Christ.  Oh, _Jesus_ , Sherlock,” he mutters in a panic, as he spins around and looks desperately for a cab.  “What are you _doing?_  What have you done?”

It takes five long minutes to find a taxi.  As he throws himself inside, his phone rings.  He checks it and swipes it angrily on.

“Sherlock!  What are you up to?”

“John.  You need to listen to me,”  Sherlock's voice is hollow, has nothing of it's usual velvet tone, and John hears it cracking.

Sherlock tries to explain that he is truly a fake.  That he invented Moriarty.  That John needs to believe that.  That he needs to _broadcast_ that.

John argues that he _knows_ Sherlock is a genius.  Of course he does.  And, bizarrely, Sherlock denies it.  Shops are moving sluggishly past the taxi window, and John thinks he could almost run as fast as the damn cab is driving.  Urgency pulses through him.  He is frantic.  They are only a block away from Barts.

“Hurry.  Hurry!” he shouts at the driver.  The driver looks horrified, and John realizes he's brandishing his ka-bar knife in the hand not holding his phone.  “Sorry,” he mutters, tucking it back down by his thigh, flicking it out of this reality and clenching his hand into a fist.

The cab rounds the corner, and John quickly leaps out, throwing some pound notes at the driver.

“John,”  says Sherlock through the phone.  John looks around him and starts for the double doors that mark the entrance to Barts. 

“Stop there.”  

John is bewildered.  “Sherlock?”

“Look up, I’m on the rooftop.”

“Oh, God.”

“This phone call.  It’s ...er, my note.  That’s what people do, don’t they - leave a note?”

John stares frozen and aghast up at his friend.  It can’t possibly be....  It can’t.  “No.  Don’t.”  The silhouette on the roof spreads its arms out to the side, in a grievous parody of wings.  John feels the pressure of his own.  “No!  Sherlock!”  The fear that resonates between them is overwhelming.

He begins to release his wings, takes a frantic step forward....  And is flung head first by a wobbling cyclist to the pavement before he can initiate the transformation.   _Crack!_  His head bounces off the asphalt, and the world is dizzyingly gray and silent.  John struggles to lift himself, irrelevant torrents of pain surging from his head.  His vision clears, and he catches the last moment of Sherlock’s fall.

“Sher--”  Flapping black coat.  Down, down, down.  

It is over.

He lurches to his feet, making blindly for the growing crowd gathered around the body.

A few minutes earlier, and he could have caught him.  Seconds, even.  Could have leaped off the ground, stretched out his wings, and risen to meet him.  Brought him safely back and then beaten him silly for doing such a stupid thing.

No.  No.  Please, Sherlock.  No.  Don't be--.

But he knows.  Before he even picks up the arm to check for a pulse.  Sherlock is broken, disconnected in the way only a body which has entirely lost the tension of life can be.

But John knew before that.  He knows because their bond, their connection, the string that has always stretched taut and alive between them.  It is unmoored.  It dangles uselessly, flapping, aimless and empty.

John hears low, broken moans.  Choking, gasping cries.   _That's me_ he thinks, distantly.  He can't let go.  The still-warm wrist is wrapped up in his fingers.  They have to pry him away.

  
  


It's been 3 months.  John is gray.  Like his world.  Mycroft stops by every once in a while.  John's pension is enough to cover half the rent, no more.  He suspects Mycroft has worked something out with Mrs. Hudson, but he can't be too arsed about it.

He desultorily looks for a job, but manages to sabotage any potential offers.  Pain from phantom wounds, remembered from Afghanistan, stiffen his shoulder and impose a limp.  John needs to purchase a cane.  

He's fading away.  All color is gone.

  
  


Another month oozes by.  John fingers his knives.  He's been throwing them at the smiley-face on the wall.  There's a perfect circle of slits on the periphery now, and he's begun to outline the mouth.

There's dust on the violin case, and dust on the skull, and dust on the cold embers of his heart.

He rolls back the sleeve of his checkered shirt, and scrapes the razor-sharp blade of the knife thoughtfully up and down the tender skin of his forearm.  He watches the steel dent the flesh.  He's not contemplating death.  Not really.  Well.  He's contemplating Sherlock's death.  Not really his own.  Not as such.  Although he _does_ recognize that his life is stalled, and he can't see the path forward.  He still hasn't contacted Harry.  He has no job.  He's a wraith.

“Dr. Watson?”  Mrs. Hudson sings up the stairs, voice high and chipper and grating as fuck.  “John, dear?  Could you do me a favor, duckie?”

John twists the point of his knife just so, and a thin daub of blood springs up.  He squeezes the handle until his fingertips feel numb.  And then he sighs, twists it away, and hauls his crippled self to his feet.  Hot, familiar pain sears his thigh, and he automatically adjusts his weight onto his left leg, waiting until he thinks it will more or less support him.  He grabs his new cane, hooked over the back of the chair, and limps to the door of the flat.  It has gotten colder, but he doesn’t bother with his cardigan.

Mrs. Hudson calls again.  “Woo ooh!  Dr. Watson?  Are you there?”

She knows full well he is there, he thinks resentfully.  He begins to clumsily hump himself down the stairs.  His shoulder is aching so badly that he can't properly support his limp using the banister.  He rounds the corner to the tiny landing eight steps down.  His impulse is to snap at her, so he takes a deep breath and makes a conscious effort to smooth out his face before he speaks.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson?  What can I do for you?”  His voice is as flat as he feels, but it's the best he can manage.  He needs to move out, he knows.  Move out and move on.  The stifling loneliness, the cramped and cluttered _sherlockness_ of the flat is slowly killing him.  He rubs a thumb absently down his forearm, following the path his knife had traced.  He tugs his sleeve back down over the little smear of blood.

“--need it for the knitting circle tonight.  Could you do that, lovey?”  Mrs. Hudson's worried, wrinkled face smiles encouragingly at him.  She's trying hard, for his sake, he knows, which he finds warmly sweet and unutterably annoying.  He replays what she's said, and finds that he still missed the important part.

He grimaces at her.  It's the best simulacrum of a smile he can summon, and says, “I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson.  I didn't catch that.  Come again?”

Mrs. Hudson rubs her hands across the olive green apron she's wearing over her purple dress.  “We're collecting blankets tonight for my knitting circle.  To help the homeless, you know?” She peers at him as if he doesn't.  As if he's going to bleat out, “The homeless??  Why would you be giving them blankets??”  John bites his tongue.  “Do you need a blanket, then?” he asks.

She narrows her eyes at him.  Uh oh.  Now he feels like a naughty schoolboy.  “John,” she says with an air of forced patience.  “There's a box of them in 221C.  Could you carry it up for me?”  She pats her hip, “It’s having a bad day, you know.”

John laughs bitterly to himself.  As if his is any better.  He nods his head, and continues to lurch down the stairs to meet her.  She turns to unlock 221C and opens the door for him.  “Just bring it to my kitchen when you've got it, alright?”  She disappears back into her flat.

John sighs, looking down yet another flight of stairs.  How the _fuck_ does she think he's going to manage these while holding a box?  With not only a bum leg, but also a stiff shoulder?  He leans the cane against the door jamb.  He'll have to rely on the railing.

He descends awkwardly into the gloom and mustiness of the long uninhabited basement flat.  The sour sting of mildew is heavy in the air, and John coughs a little.  There's no power; but enough light is filtering through filthy street-level windows near the ceiling to see.  There is a collection of haphazardly positioned boxes and tubs across the room near the fireplace.  A dusty stack of fashion magazines.  A small artificial Christmas tree, festooned with spiderwebs.  A little tray of pots and spades, still coated with long-dried mud.  

And an egg.

John freezes where he stands.  It isn't.  It can't be.  Perhaps it's an easter decoration?  The easter version of an artificial tree?  

He's vibrating.  He's shaking apart, and paralyzed all at once, the inside of his body screaming and falling and racing around;  but his skin is icy and stiff and holds the rest of it willfully in place.  His mouth is hanging slightly open, and he can feel his lips drying out as he has his lapidifical crisis.

After what feels like forever, he finally breathes.  Air whistles back into his lungs sharply, bitingly, and he realizes he's been holding his breath for a while.  He takes a step forward, stirring the dust motes into little whirlwinds around his legs.  The egg does not disappear.  Another step, and another.  He doesn't note that he's no longer limping.

He reaches the egg eventually, and bends to rest two fingers, hesitant and astonished, lightly against the shell.  His upper chest is bruising with the seismic battering of his heart.  The shell feels tepid under his fingertips;  not sleekly smooth, but invisibly pitted.  Textured.  It is dark, looks like dark gray in the unreliable light of the flat.  John sinks to his knees.  Collapses, really.  His strings have been cut.  He falls to his knees like a supplicant, and his hands are shaking wildly as he grabs onto the gently rounded ends of the egg.

“Sh-  She-  Sherlock?” He croaks, and presses his hands flat against the curve of shell.  “Sherlock?” His voice is tight and shaky, and when he bows his head to lay his cheek on the egg, he can feel warm tears sealing his skin to the shell.  “Oh, god.  Oh, Sherlock.  Please be Sherlock.  Please.”  And for the moment all he can do is lean against the egg, crying, wrapping his arms around it, and his primary emotion isn't relief, or surprise, but a deep and abiding _dread_ that this isn't real.  It's a dream.  Perhaps he fell down the stairs and hit his head.  It's too much.  It's too much of a gift.  It can't be real.  And he wants it to be.  So. Badly.  Perhaps he's finally cracked (the pun does not escape him), and this is a hallucination.  Mrs. Hudson will eventually find him crying on the floor of the basement flat, perhaps draped over a moldy box, claiming it's an egg.

So he shakes and cries, and gets tears and snot on the egg (which he _knows_ Sherlock would hate, and he wonders if embryo-Sherlock is twitching and shuddering with distaste right now), until his knees ache.  The light has become dimmer, the sun has moved, the dust motes vanish again until the right time tomorrow.  John and the egg are in shadow.  The monochromatic devastation which has crushed him for months has been purged, and in its place is a tiny new hope.

He sits back on his heels, and cleans himself up a little with his shirttail.  He wipes his forearm across the wet spot on the egg, too, in case it's bothering Sherlock.  He grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes until the light behind his lids goes black, then white and then skating spots when he opens them again.  Once that's settled down, he still sees the egg.  It is something like three times wider than himself, lying on its side, and half a meter high.  He smooths his hands over the blunt and more pointed ends at the same time.  He can comfortably reach both ends at once, feels sure he can carry it if he finds the right balance.  The shell feels fragile and precious under his hands.  Like Sherlock:  fine and elegant.  He dips his head and presses a furtive kiss against the egg.  Please.   _Please_.  Please let this be real.

He looks around and sees the box labeled, in shaky spikey handwriting, “Blankets” and remorselessly opens it up.  The top blanket is a knitted atrocity in hideous shades of putrid and puce.  John pities the homeless person who winds up with this beauty.  But it will serve a higher purpose now.  He very gently rolls the egg onto the spread blanket and then catches the corners up into a makeshift sling.  The holes in the knitting are perfect for weaving his fingers into, and the blanket stretches slightly as he stands and then cautiously lifts the egg.  Nothing slips or falls, and John sucks in a relieved gasp.  He braces the bottom of the egg with his other arm, and holds it awkwardly just below his chin.  Craning his neck so he can see the stairs, he slowly mounts them.

Mrs. Hudson calls something from her flat as he passes to the next flight of stairs, but he ignores her.  He climbs 17 more steps, and does not limp at all.  Once in 221B, he heads straight for Sherlock's bed.   _Their_ bed.  He unwraps the egg carefully, like the best Christmas present he's ever gotten, and settles it in, tucking the afghan around it in a nest-like ring to prevent it from rolling away.  

He flicks on the bedroom light and the bedside lamp as well, and then sits next to the egg, trailing his fingers across the china-like shell.  It is a charcoal gray, and there are flecks and lines of deep purple, almost black aubergine puzzling throughout.  This is Sherlock in a suit, John recognizes. Sleek and dark and on the verge of ostentatious.  He leans his forehead breathlessly against the bow of shell.  “Sherlock,” he whispers.  And then, with practicality, “I'm so glad you took notes.”

John hurries to the dresser drawer where Sherlock stores his lab notebooks, and digs around until he pulls out the one labeled “Incubation Procedures for Optimum Egg Hatchability”.  He flicks on the kettle, runs downstairs to deliver Mrs. Hudson her box.  (“Thank you, John.  Would you like some tea?”  “No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson.  I've got a project going.” Mrs. Hudson gives a knowing smirk.  “Of course you do.  Carry on, dear.”  She doesn't comment that he's suddenly got flushed cheeks, a lighter step, bouncing carriage and a real smile.)

Upstairs again, having shut and _locked_ the entry door, John sets his tea to steep, carrying it in to the bedside table.  He curls up around the egg, sharing his warmth, heart beating a happy melody, chest buzzing with the stirrings of a renewed connection, and settles in to study Sherlock's hatching protocol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe there’s a sequel brewing.  Subscribe to me as an author, maybe, so you know when that happens?
> 
> I also invite you all to follow me on [Tumblr](http://mojoflower.tumblr.com/), where you’re likely to get snippets and previews, and lots of Johnlock (NSFW).  I've got bits up there now from a story I'm working on where John finds and old lamp... and Sherlock is a genie called [Shatter the Darkness (Let the Light In)](../../../651740).
> 
> Writing this has been an amazing introduction to the world of fandom:  I’ve made so many connections, and have been overwhelmed at the amount of support, encouragement and sheer enthusiasm I’ve been given.  This includes my lovely betas (late though they were to the party) [Snogandagrope](../../../../users/snogandagrope/pseuds/snogandagrope)and [MildredandBobbin](../../../../users/Mildredandbobbin/pseuds/Mildredandbobbin), who has been a cheerleader all along.  And artists have done work for this tale, which delights me beyond words!  So thank you [JustFoolinRound](../../../../users/justfoolinround), [KayJayKayMe](http://kayjaykayme.tumblr.com/)and [MindPalaceofVersailles](http://mindpalaceofversailles.tumblr.com/), [JillandSarah](http://jillandsarah.tumblr.com/)and[BoringIsDull](http://boringisdull.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Also, I want to thank all of you, lovely readers, who left comments and kudos and bookmarks.  You don’t know how much I looked forward to each notification that someone out there _liked_ what I wrote, and even wanted more.  A lot of you have been with me from the beginning, and I feel like I know you!  So here’s a shout out, for leaving encouragement, in no particular order, to:  Lapus, EvilTeddyBear, Skeptic7, morange, VampSlyr, Japonicastor, YouCan’tSayMyLastName, Arieunor, Lettervreter, ScienceofObsession, Broken_Muse, Serenity1, Scriosity, AFanAgain, Rustaam, Theodora, mich, VerusMaya, CatRenee, Sophia_Prestor, ClaireShadows, Lolcari, Geminia905, ihnasarima, RowanTree, SunsetFan24, Altimeterrise, Scarletphrophesy, mazingira, Alchymyst, RTE+175, CristaLake and md.

**Author's Note:**

> **Please read and review: I want to learn and improve. Concrit is not only welcome, but sought-after. Let me know if you like it! That's pure fuel for my fingers.
> 
> **This story is inspired by TartanFics, who had a very bizarre dream one night, and should now forever to be worshiped as “Founder of the Hatchling!Fic / Egg!Fic Genres” (even if I did add wings).


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